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WILEY & PUTNAM'S 

LIBRARY OF 

CHOICE READING 



MEMOIRS AND ESSAYS 



ILLUSTRATIVE OF 



ART, LITERATURE AND SOCIAL MORALS, 



Or** 
BY MRS. JAMESON, 

AUTHOR OF 

" THE CHARACTERISTICS OF WOMEN," " MEMOIRS OF FEMALE 

SOVEREIGNS," "WINTER STUDIES AND SUMMER 

RAMBLES," ETC., ETC. 



NEW YORK: 
WILEY & PUTNAM, 161 BROADWAY. 

1846. 






<SIft from 
^ Estate of Miss Ruth Putnam 

Oct.6,1931 



R. Craiohead's Power Press, T. B. Smith, Stereotyper 

112 Fulton Street. 216 William Street. 



What if the little rain should say — 

" So small a drop as I 
Can ne'er refresh the thirsty plain 

I'll tarry in the sky ?" 

What if a shining beam of noon 
Should in its fountain stay, 

Because its feeble light alone 
Cannot create a day ? 

Doth not each rain-drop help to form 
The cool refreshing shower ? 

And every ray of light to warm 
And beautify the flower . 

Anon. 



CONTENTS 



PAGE 

I. THE HOUSE OF TITIAN 1 

II. ADELAIDE KEMBLE, AND THE LYRICAL DRAMA 43 

III. THE XANTHIAN MARBLES 77 

IV. WASHINGTON ALLSTON 99 

V. " woman's mission," and woman's POSITION 129 

VI. ON THE RELATIVE SOCIAL POSITION OF MOTHERS AND GOVER- 
NESSES 155 



THE HOUSE OF TITIAN. 



35od) ift fccr 2)icnfd) 
5Rid)t ^{inflict Mof, aucf) SRenfdj ; Me 9?renfd>Iicf;feit 
©cf)i5n 511 enftobfefn, Stcunb, aud) ba6 i(l Jhmfi! 

CElenschlager. 

For the Painter 
Is not the Painter only, but the man ; 
And to unfold the human into beauty, 
That also is art. 



THE HOUSE OF TITIAN- 

Venice, Sept., 1845. 

If I were required to sum up in two great names whatever the 
art of painting had contemplated and achieved of highest and best, 
I would invoke Raphael and Titian. The former as the most 
perfect example of all that has been accomplished in the expres- 
sion of thought through the medium of form : the latter, of all 
that has been accomplished in the expression of life through the 
medium of color. Hence it is that, while hoik have given us 
mind, and both have given us beauty, Mind is ever the charac- 
teristic of Raphael — Beauty, that of Titian. 

Considered under this point of view, these wonderful men 
remain to us as representatives of the two great departments 
of art. All who went before them, and all who follow after them, 
may be ranged under the banners of one or the other of these 
great kings and leaders. Under the banners of Raphael appear 
the majestic thinkers in art, the Florentine and Roman painters 
of the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries ; and Albert Durer, in 
Germany. Ranged on the side of Titian appear the Venetian, 
the Lombard, the Spanish and Flemish masters. When a school 
of art arose which aimed at uniting the characteristics of both, 
what was the result 'I A something second-hand and neutral, — 
the school of the Academicians and the Mannerists, a crowd of 
painters, who neither felt what they saw, nor saw what they felt ; 
who trusted neither to the God within them, nor the nature around 
them ; and who ended by giving us Form without Soul, — Beauty 
without Life. 

I once heard it said, by a celebrated connoisseur of the present 
2 



THE HOUSE OF TITIAN. 



day, " that there were but three inventors or originators in 
modern art, — Giorgione, Correggio, and Rembrandt. Each of 
these broke up a new path for himself; they were inventors, inas- 
much as they saw nature truly, yet under an aspect which had 
never before been rendered through the medium of art. Raphael 
had the antique, and Titian had Giorgione, as precursors and 
models." This is true; and yet to impugn the originality of 
Raphael and Titian, is like impugning the originality of Shak- 
speare. They, like him, did not hesitate to use, as means, the 
material presented to them by the minds of others. They, like 
him, had minds of such universal' and unequalled capacity, that 
all other originalities seem to be swallowed up — comprehended, 
as it were, in theirs. How much, in point of frame-work and 
material, Shakspeare adopted, unhesitatingly, from the play- 
wrights of his time, is sufficiently known : how frankly Raphael 
borrowed a figure from one of his contemporaries, or a group 
from the Antique, is notorious to all who have studied his works. 
I know that there are critics who look upon Raphael as having 
secularised, and Titian as having sensualised art : I know it has 
become a fashion to prefer an old Florentine or Umbrian Madonna 
to Raphael's Galatea ; and an old German hard-visaged, wooden- 
limbed saint to Titian's Venus. Under one point of view, I quite 
agree with the critics alluded to. Such preference commands 
our approbation and our sympathy, if we look to the height of the 
aim proposed, rather than to the completeness of the performance, 
as such. But here I am not considering art with reference to its 
aims or its associations, religious or classic ; nor with reference 
to individual tastes, whether they lean to piety or poetry, to the 
real or the ideal ; nor as the reflection of any prevailing mode of 
belief or existence ; but simply as art, as the Muta Poesis, the 
interpreter between nature and man ; giving back to us her forms 
with the utmost truth of imitation, and, at the same time, clothing 



THE HOUSE OF TITIAN. 



them with a high significance derived from the human purpose 
and the human intellect. 

If, for instance, we are to consider painting as purely religious, 
we must go back to the infancy of modern art, when the expres- 
sion of sentiment was all in all, and the expression of life in action 
nothing ; when, reversing the aim of Greek art, the limbs and 
form were defective, while character, as it is shown in physiog- 
nomy, was delicately felt, and truly rendered. And if, on the 
other hand, we are to consider art merely as perfect imitation, 
we must go to the Dutchmen of the seventeenth century. Art 
is only perfection when it fills us with the idea of perfection ; 
when we are not called on to supply deficiencies, or to set limits 
to our demands ; and this lifting up of the heart and soul, this 
fulness of satisfaction and delight, we find in the works of Ra- 
phael and Titian. In this only alike — in all else, how different ! 
Different as were the men themselves — the antipodes of each 
other ! 

In another place, I might be tempted to pursue the comparison, 
or rather contrast, between these two worshippers and high- 
priests of the Beautiful, in all other respects so unlike — working, 
as one might say, under a different dispensation. But Raphael, 
elsewhere the God of my idolatry, seems here — at Venice — to 
have become to me like a distant star, and the system of which 
he is the amazing central orb or planet, for awhile removed and 
comparatively dim ; while Titian reigns at hand, the present 
Deity, the bright informing sun of this enchanted world, this sea- 
girt city, where light, and color, and beauty are, " wherever we 
look, wherever we move." In Venice, I see everywhere Titian; 
as in his pictures, I see, or rather I feel, Venice : not the mere 
external features of the locality, not the material Venice — build- 
ings, churches, canals — but a spirit which is nowhere else on 
earth to be perceived, felt, or understood, but here ! Here, where 
we float about as in a waking dream — here, where all is at once 



THE HOUSE OF TITIAN. 



so old and so new — so familiar and so wonderful — so fresh to the 
fancy, and so intimate to the memory ! These palaces, with their 
arabesque facades and carved balconies, and portals green with 
sea-weed ; and these tall towering belfries, and these black glid- 
ing gondolas, have we not seen them a thousand and a thousand 
times reproduced to fancy, in pictures vivid and real as them- 
selves ? And yet, every time we come upon them, though it 
were ten times in an hour, do we not feel inclined to clap our 
hands, and exclaim aloud, like delighted children when the cur- 
tain draws up at their first play 1 O ! to make children of us 
again, nothing like Venice ! 

And so it is with Titian's pictures : they make children of us 
again ; they surprise us with the feeling of a presence ; they 
melt us with a familiar sympathy ; we rejoice in them as we do 
in music, in spring-tide, in the fresh air and morning breath of 
flowers. It is long before we can bring the intellect to bear on 
them, for the faculties of judgment and comparison are lost in 
the perception of beauty, in admiration, in faith unbounded. In 
them we acknowledge that " touch of nature which makes the 
whole world kin." And where but at Venice could Titian have 
lived and worked ? I know not well how or why it is, but color, 
which seems elsewhere an accidental property of things, seems 
to be here a substance, an existence, a part of one's very life and 
soul : — color vivid and intense, broken by reflected lights flung 
from glancing waters, and enhanced by strange contrasts of wide- 
spread sunny seas, and close-shut shadowy courtyards, overgrown 
with vines, or roses, or creeping verdure in all the luxury of 
neglect, each with its well and over-hanging fig-tree in the midst. 
These court-yards, haunts of quiet seclusion and mystery, in 
which I should think is concentred the Venetian idea of a home 
— how few who visit Venice know of their cool, silent, pictu- 
resque recesses ! Yet to understand and feel Titian aright, we 
ought to know Venice thoroughly, — its cortili as well as its canals ; 



THE HOUSE OF TITIAN. 



for it is precisely these peculiar, these merely local characteristics 
— this subdued gloom in the midst of dazzling sunshine ; this 
splendor of hue deepened, not darkened, by shade; this seclusion 
in the midst of vastness ; this homeliness in the midst of gran- 
deur ; this artlessness in the midst of art ; this repose in the 
midst of the fulness of life ; which we feel alike in Titian's pic- 
tures, and in Venice. 

And then his men and women, — his subtle, dark, keen-eyed, 
grand-looking men ; and his full-formed, luxuriant, yet delicate- 
featured women — are they not here still 1 Such I have seen as 
I well remember, at a festa on the Lido; women with just such 
eyes, dark, lustrous, melancholy, — and just such hair, in such 
redundance, plaited, knotted, looped round the small elegant 
heads — sometimes a tress or two escaping from the bands, and 
falling from their own weight, — so like his and Palma's and 
Paolo's rich-haired St. Catherines and St. Barbaras, one would 
have imagined them as even now walked out of their pictures, — 
or rather walked into them, — for the pictures were yet more like 
life than the life like pictures. 

And with regard to the Venetian women : every one must 
remember in the Venetian pictures, not only the peculiar luxuri- 
ance, but the peculiar color of the hair, of every golden tint from 
a rich full shade of auburn to a sort of yellow flaxen hue, — or 
rather not flaxen, but like raw silk, such as we have seen the 
peasants in Lombardy carrying over their arms, or on their heads, 
in great, shining, twisted heaps. I have sometimes heard it asked 
with wonder, whether those pale golden masses of hair, the true 
" biondina" tint, could have been always natural 1 On the con- 
trary, it was oftener artificial — the color, not the hair. In the 
days of the elder Palma and Giorgione yellow hair was the fashion, 
and the paler the tint the more admired. The women had a 
method of discharging the natural color by first washing their 
tresses in some chemical preparation, and then exposing them to 



THE HOUSE OF TITIAN. 



the sun. I have seen a curious old Venetian print, perhaps 
satirical, which represents this process. A lady is seated on the 
roof, or balcony, of her house, wearing a sort of broad-brimmed 
hat without a crown : the long hair is drawn over these wide 
brims, and spread out in the sunshine, while the face is com- 
pletely shaded. How they contrived to escape a brain fever, or 
a coup de soleil, is a wonder ; — and truly of all the multifarious 
freaks of fashion and vanity, I know none more strange than this, 
unless it be the contrivance of the women of Antigua, to obtain a 
new natural complexion. I have been speaking here of the peo- 
ple ; but any one who has looked up at a Venetian lady standing 
on her balcony, in the evening light, or peeping out from the 
window of her gondola, must be struck at once with the resem- 
blance in color and countenance to the pictures he has just seen 
in churches and galleries. We may also contrast in the Venetian 
portraits the plain black habits of the men (the only exception 
being the crimson robes of the Procuradori di San Marco), with 
the splendid dresses and jewels of the women, to whom, apparently, 
the sumptuary laws did not extend ; and still you see their love 
of ornaments, and of gay, decided, bright colors, which nowhere 
else appear so bright as at Venice. 

I am acquainted with an English artist, who, being struck by 
the vivid tints of some stuffs which he saw worn by the women, 
and which appeared to him precisely the same as those he admired 
in Titian and Paul Veronese, purchased some pieces of the same 
fabric, and brought them to England ; but he soon found that for 
his purpose he ought to have brought the Venetian atmosphere 
with him. When unpacked in London the reds seemed as dingy, 
and the yellows as dirty, and the blues as smoky, as our own. 

But it is not merely the brightness and purity of the atmo- 
sphere — elsewhere in Italy as pure and as bright — it is still more 
the particular mode of existence at Venice, which has rendered 
the perception of colors in masses so great a source of pleasure, 



THE HOUSE OF TITIAN. 



while it has become a leading characteristic in Venetian art. 
There is a most interesting note appended to the translation of 
" Goethe's Theory of Colors," which exemplifies, and, in some 
sort, explains this relation between the circumstances of the 
locality, and the peculiar sentiment of the painters as regards the 
treatment of color. The translator (Mr. Eastlake), after some 
general remarks on various systems of coloring in various schools, 
thus continues : — " The color of general nature may be observed 
in all places, with almost equal convenience ; but with regard to 
an important quality in living nature, namely, the color of the 
flesh, perhaps there are no circumstances, in which its effects at 
different distances can be so conveniently compared, as when the 
observer and the observed gradually approach and glide past each 
other on so smooth an element, and in so undisturbed a manner, 
as on the canals, and in the gondolas at Venice ; the complexions, 
from the peculiar mellow carnations of the Italian women to the 
sun-burnt features and limbs of the mariners, presenting at the 
same time the fullest variety in another sense. At a certain dis- 
tance — the color being always assumed to be unimpaired by in- 
terposed atmosphere — the reflections appear kindled to intenser 
warmth, the fiery glow of Giorgione is strikingly apparent, the 
color is seen in its largest relation. The macchia, an expression 
used so emphatically by Italian writers (i. e. the local color), ap- 
pears in all its quantity ; and the reflections being the focus of 
warmth, the hue seems to deepen in shade." As the gondola 
floats towards us, " a nearer view gives the detail of cooler tints 
more perceptibly, and the forms are more distinct. Hence Lanzi 
is quite correct when, in distinguishing the style of Titian from 
that of Giorgione, he says, that Titian's was at once more defined 
and less fiery ; in a still nearer observation the eye detects the 
minute lights which Leonardo da Vinci says were incompatible 
with the effects we have just been describing, and which, accord- 
ingly, we never find in Titian and Giorgione." " In assuming 



THE HOUSE OF TITIAN. 



that the Venetian painters may have acquired a taste for this 
breadth of color under the circumstances alluded to, it is more- 
over to be remembered, that the time for this agreeable study was 
the evening ; when the sun had already set behind the hills of 
Bassano ; when the light was glowing but diffused ; when the 
shadows were soft — conditions all agreeing with the character of 
their coloring ; above all, when the hour invited the fairer portion 
of the population to betake themselves in their gondolas to the 
La^unes." 

It results from this, that what we call the " Venetian color- 
ing " is at Venice a truth ; it is the faithful transcript of certain 
effects, having their causes in the very nature of the things and 
the conditions of the existence around us ; but, elsewhere, it is a 
fashion, an imitation, a beautiful supposition ; we are obliged to 
grant those conditions which here we see and feel. 

The character of grandeur given to color, both by Giorgione 
and Titian, and more particularly by Giorgione, is very extraor- 
dinary. The style of the Caravaggio and Guercino school, with 
their abrupt lights and shadows, their " light upon dark, and dark 
upon light," may be very effective and exciting, but, to my taste, 
it is tricky and vulgar in comparison to the Venetian style. It is 
like an epigram compared with a lyric, or a melodrama compared 
with an epic poem. 

That which in Giorgione was the combined result of a power- 
ful and imaginative temperament, and a peculiar organic sensi- 
bility to the appearances of external nature, was more modified 
by observation and comparison in Titian ; but Giorgione was the 
true poet and prophet, the precursor of what subsequently became 
the manner of the school, as we see it in the best of the late Vene- 
tians, Pietra della Vecchia, Tiepolo, and others. 



THE HOUSE OF TITIAN. 



It is this all-pervading presence of light, and this suffusion of 
rich color glowing through the deepest shadows, which make the 
very life and soul of Venice ; but not all who have dwelt in 
Venice, and breathed her air and lived in her life, have felt their 
influences ; it is the want of them which renders so many of Ca- 
naletti's pictures false and unsatisfactory — to me at least. All the 
time I was at Venice I was in a rage with Canaletti. I could not 
come upon a palace, or a church, or a corner of a canal which I 
had not seen in one or other of his pictures. At every moment 
I was reminded of him. But how has he painted Venice ? just 
as we have the face of a beloved friend reproduced by the da- 
guerreotype, or by some bad conscientious painter — some fellow 
who gives us eyes, nose, and mouth by measure of compass, and 
leaves out all sentiment, all countenance ; we cannot deny the 
identity, and we cannot endure it. Where in Canaletti are the 
glowing evening skies — the transparent gleaming waters — the 
bright green of the vine-shadowed Traghetto — the freshness and 
the glory — the dreamy, aerial, fantastic splendor of this city of 
the sea ? Look at one of his pictures — all is real, opaque, solid, 
stony, formal ; — even his skies and water — and is that Venice ? 

"But," says my friend, "if you would have Venice, seek it in 
Turner's pictures !" True, I may seek it, but shall I find it ? 
Venice is like a dream ; — but this dream upon the canvass, do 
you call this Venice 1 The exquisite precision of form, the won- 
drous beauty of detail, the clear, delicate lines of the flying per- 
spective — so sharp and defined in the midst of a flood of bright- 
ness — where are they ? Canaletti gives us the forms without the 
color or light. Turner, the color and light without the forms. 

But if you would take into your soul the very soul and inward 
life and spirit of Venice — breathe the same air — go to Titian ; 
there is more of Venice in his " Cornaro Family," or his " Pe- 
saro Madonna," than in all the Canalettis in the corridor at 
Windsor. Beautiful they are, I must needs say it ; but when I 
2* 



10 THE HOUSE OF TITIAN. 

think of enchanting Venice, the most beautiful are to me like 
prose translations of poetry, — petrifactions, materialities : " We 
start, for life is wanting there V * 

I know not how it is, but certainly things that would elsewhere 
displease, delight us at Venice. It has been said, for instance, 
" put down the church of St. Mark anywhere but in the Piazza, 
it is barbarous :" here, where east and west have met to blend 
together, it is glorious. And again, with regard to the sepulchral 
effigies in our churches — I have always been of Mr. Westma- 
cott's principles and party ; always on the side of those who de- 
nounce the intrusion of monuments of human pride insolently 
paraded in God's temple ; and surely cavaliers on prancing horses 
in a church should seem the very acme, of such irreverence and 
impropriety in taste ; but here the impression is far different. O 
those awful, grim, mounted warriors and doges, high over our 
heads against the walls of the San Giovanni e Paolo and the Frari ! 
— man and horse in panoply of state, colossal, life-like — sus- 
pended, as it were, so far above us, that we cannot conceive how 
they came there, or are kept there, by human means alone. It 
seems as though they had been lifted up and fixed on their airy 
pedestals as by a spell. At whatever hour I visited those 
churches, and that was almost daily, whether at morn, or noon, or 
in the deepening twilight, still did those marvellous effigies — man 
and steed, and trampled Turk ; or mitred doge, upright and stiff 
in his saddle — fix me as if fascinated ; and still I looked up at 
them, wondering every day with a new wonder, and scarce re- 
pressing the startled exclamation, " Good heavens ! how came 
they there ?" 

And not to forget the great wonder of modern times, — I hear 

* Guardi gives the local coloring of Venice more truly than Canaletti : 
Bonnington better than either, in one or two examples which remain to us. 
I remember particularly a picture, which is, or was, in the possession of 
Mr. Munroe, of Park-street. 



THE HOUSE OF TITIAN. 11 

people talking of the railroad across the Lagune, as if it were to 
unpoetise Venice ; as if this new approach were a malignant in- 
vention to bring the syren of the Adriatic into the " dull catalogue 
of common things ;" and they call on me to join the outcry, to 
echo sentimental denunciations, quoted out of Murray's Hand- 
book ; but I cannot — I have no sympathy with them. To me, 
that tremendous bridge, spanning the sea, only adds to the won- 
derful one wonder more ; — to great sources of thought one yet 
greater. Those persons, methinks, must be strangely prosaic 
au fond who can see poetry in a Gothic pinnacle, or a crumbling 
temple, or a gladiator's circus, and in this gigantic causeway and 
its seventy-five arches, traversed with fiery speed by dragons, 
brazen-winged, to which neither alp nor ocean can oppose a bar- 
rier — nothing but a common-place. I must say I pity them. / 
see a future fraught with hopes for Venice ; — 

Twining memories of old time 
With new virtues more sublime ! 

I will join in any denunciations against the devastators, white- 
washers, and so-called renovators ; may they be rewarded ! 

But in the midst of our regrets for the beauty that is outworn or 
profaned, why should we despond, as if the fountains of beauty 
were reserved in heaven, and flowed no more to us on earth ? 
Why should we be always looking back, till our heads are well 
nigh twisted off our shoulders ? Why all our reverence, all our 
faith for the past, as if the night were already come " in which no 
man can work V — as if there were not a long day before us for 
effort in the cause of humanity — for progress in the knowledge 
of good 1 

While thinking of that colossal range of piers and arches, 
bestriding the sea — massy and dark against the golden sunset, as 
I last saw them, I am reminded Of another occasion, on which I 



12 THE HOUSE OF TITIAN. 

beheld the poetry of science and civilisation, and the poetry of 
memory and association, brought into close and startling propin- 
quity. 

At this time it happened that the young queen of Greece was 
at Venice. We used to meet her sometimes gliding about in an 
open gondola, with her picturesque attendants ; and with that 
kind of interest which those singled out for high and mournful 
destinies excite in every human heart, we could not help watch- 
ing her as she passed and repassed, and looking into her counte- 
nance, pale and elegant, and somewhat sad. I believe it was 
partly in her honor and partly to amuse two boy-princes of Aus- 
tria, also there, that a French aeronaut was engaged on a certain 
day to ascend in his balloon from the Campo di San Luca. Now 
every one knows that as the streets of Venice are merely paved 
alleys, so these open spaces, dignified by the name of campi 
(fields or squares), are, most of them, not larger than the little 
paved courts in the heart of London — gaps, breathing-places, 
some few yards square. On this grand occasion, the whole of the 
Campo di San Luca was let out, every window occupied. We 
also were of the invited, but we wisely considered that it would 
be much like looking up at the balloon from the bottom of a well. 
So we ordered our gondolier to row us out on the Grand Canal, 
and in the direction which we knew the wind would discreetly 
oblige the aeronaut to take, that is, towards the main land ; and 
there we floated about in the open Lagune beyond Santa Chiara, 
till we beheld the balloon emerging suddenly from amid the clus- 
tered buildings, then ascending slowly — gracefully, and hovering 
like a ball of fire over the city. The sun was just setting, as it 
sets at Venice, dome, and pinnacle, and lofty campanile bathed 
in crimson light. The people had all crowded to the other end 
of the town, and were congregated round royalty in the Piazza 
and the public gardens. Solitary in our gondola, on the wide 
Lagune, we leaned back and watched the balloon soaring over- 



THE HOUSE OF TITIAN. 13 

head in the direction of Padua ; while our gondolier, rendered 
perhaps for the first time in his life silent with astonishment, stood 
leaning on his oar, breathless, his mouth wide open, from which, 
as soon as he could find voice, issued a volley of adjurations and 
imprecations, after the Venetian fashion. A month afterwards, 
at Verona, I encountered the same aeronaut, but this time he had 
undertaken to rise from the centre of the ancient amphitheatre. 
It is calculated to hold 22,000 persons ; therefore, as it was nearly 
full, there must have been from 15,000 to 18,000 people collected 
within the circuit of its massy walls, and ranged, tier above tier, 
on its marble seats. In fact, the whole population of Verona and 
its neighborhood seemed, on this occasion, to have poured into its 
vast enclosure. 

It was a holiday ; all were gaily dressed. There were bands 
of music, a regiment or two of Austrian soldiers, under arms, as 
usual ; and the multitude of spectators, one half in sunshine, the 
other half in shade, sat for some time, now hushed into silence 
by suspense ; now breaking into a murmur of impatience, swell- 
ing like a hollow sound, just heard so far as impatience and dis- 
content are allowed to be audible in this submissive, military- 
ridden country. Meantime the process of filling the balloon was 
going on, even in that very recess whence the wild beasts were 
let loose on their victims. When it was filled, and while still 
held down by the cords, the aeronaut slowly made the circuit of 
the arena above the heads of the people, throwing down as he 
passed showers of bonbons on the ladies beneath. The men then 
let go the ropes, and the machine ascended swiftly, to the sound 
of triumphant music and animated bravos, and floated off in the di- 
rection of Mantua. Many hundreds of the people rushed up to the 
topmost summit of the building, which is without any defensive 
parapet, and there they stood gesticulating on the giddy verge, 
their forms strongly defined against the blue sky. We also 
ascended ; what a scene was there ! Below us the city spread 



14 THE HOUSE OF TITIAN. 

out in all the vividness of an Italian atmosphere ; with its wind- 
ing river and strange old bridges, and cypress-crowned hill ; on 
one side the sun setting in a blaze of purple and gold ; on the 
other, the pale large moon rising like a gigantic spectre of her- 
self; and far to the south, the balloon diminishing to a speck — a 
point, till lost in the depths of space. Turning again to the inte- 
rior, we saw the crowds sinking from sight, with an awful rapid- 
ity, as if swallowed up by the cavern-like Vomitories ; and by 
the time we had descended into the arena, there were but a few 
stragglers left, flitting like ghosts to and fro in the midst of its 
vast circuit, already gloomily dark, while all without was still 
glowing in the evening light. It was in the midst of this scene, 
and while lost in the thousand speculations to which it gave rise, 
that I heard some travellers talking of the profanation of the 
antique circus, by being made a theatre of amusement and by 
the admission of a motley crowd of modern barbarians. Could 
they see in the contrast suggested by such a spectacle only the 
desecration of an old Roman relic — the intrusion of the common- 
place into the poetical 1 To me it was earnest of the victory of 
mind over ferocious ignorance — a purifying of those blood-stained 
precincts — that they should witness the peaceful yet. glorious tri- 
umphs of science even there where such wholesale horrors were 
once enacted as freeze the blood to think of. Do the admirers of 
the world's old age, which, as Bacon truly says, ought rather to be 
called the world's rash infancy, wish such times returned ? Italy 
will not be regenerated by looking back, but by looking forward. 

People may gaze up at that old Verona amphitheatre, and on 
the fallen or falling palaces of Venice, and moralise on the tran- 
sitoriness of all human things : — well is it for us that some things 
are transitory ! Let us believe, as we ?nust, if we have faith in 
God's good government of the world, that nothing dies that de- 
serves to live ; that nothing perishes into which the spirit of man 



THE HOUSE OF TITIAN. 15 

has entered ; that we are the heirs not only of immortality in 
heaven, but of an immortality on earth — of immortal mind be- 
queathed to us, and which we in our turn transmit with increase 
to our descendants. Why ask of all-various, infinite Nature 
another Shakspeare, another Raphael, another Titian ? Have 
they not lived and done their work ? Why ask to have the past, 
even in its most excellent form, reproduced ? Is it not here, be- 
side us, a part of our present existence ? 

When I wandered through some of those glorious old churches 
in Lombardy, surrounded by their faded frescos and mystic 
groups,— 

Virgin, and babe, and saint, 
With the same cold, calm, beautiful regard 

a solemn feeling was upon me — a sense of the sublime and the 
true, which did not arise merely from the perception of excel- 
lence in art, neither was it a yearning after those forms of faith 
which have gone into the past ; but because in these enduring 
monuments the past was made present ; because the spirit of 
devotion which had raised them, and filled them with images 
of beauty and holiness, being in itself a truth, that truth died 
not — could not die — but seemed to me still inhabiting there, still 
hovering round, still sanctifying and vivifying the forms it had 
created. When a short time afterwards I crossed the Alps and 
found myself at Munich, how different all ! The noble church- 
es, professedly and closely imitated from the types and models 
left by mediaeval art, lavishly decorated with pictures and sculp- 
ture executed to perfection, found me every day admiring, 
praising, criticising — but ever cold. I felt how vain must be 
the attempt to reanimate the spirit of Catholicism merely by 
returning to the forms. " Still," as Schiller says so beautifully, 
"doth the old feeling bring back the old names;" — but never 
will the old names bring back the old feeling. How strongly I 



16 THE HOUSE OF TITIAN. 

felt this at Munich ! In the Basilica especially, which has been 
dedicated to St. Boniface, where every group, figure, ornament, 
has had its prototype in some of the venerable edifices of old 
Christian Rome, brought from the Sant' Agnese, or the Santa 
Prasseda. There they were, awful — soul-lifting — heart-speaking, 
because they were the expression of a faith which lived in men's 
souls, and worked in their acts — were, and are, for time cannot 
silence that expression nor obliterate that impress ; but these fac- 
titious, second-hand exhibitions of modern religious art, fall com- 
paratively so cold on the imagination — so flat — so profitless ! Of 
course I am speaking here not of their merit, but of their moral 
effect, or rather their moral efficacy. The real value, the real 
immortality of the beautiful productions of old art lies in their 
truth, as embodying the spirit of a particular age. We have not 
so much outlived that spirit, as we have comprehended it in a 
still larger sphere of experience and existence. We do not re- 
pudiate it ; we cannot, without repudiating a truth ; but we carry 
it with us into a wider, grander horizon. It is no longer the 
whole, but a part, as that which is now the whole to us shall 
hereafter be but a part ; for thus the soul of humanity spreads 
into a still-widening circle, embracing the yet unknown, the yet 
unrevealed, unattained. This age, through which we have lived 
— are living — in what form will it show itself to futurity, and be 
comprehended in it — by it? — not, as I believe, in any form of 
the fine arts ; in machinery perhaps ; in the perfecting of civil 
and educational institutions. This is our prosaic present which 
is the destined cradle of a poetical future. Sure I am, that an 
age is opening upon us which will seek and find its manifestation 
in the highest art : all is preparing for such an advent ; but they 
who would resuscitate the forms of art of the past ages, might as 
well think to make Attic Greek once more the language of our 
herb- women. Those tongues we call and account as dead have 
ceased to be the medium of communion between soul and soul : 



THE HOUSE OF TITIAN. 17 

yet they are really living, are immortal, through the glorious 
thoughts they have served to embody ; and as it has been with 
the classical languages, so it is with the arts of the middle ages ; 
they live and are immortal, — but for all present purposes they 
are dead. 

Piety in art — poetry in art — Puseyism in art, — let us be care- 
ful how we confound them. 

***** 

Titian, — for we are still in Venice, where every object recalls 
him, so that whatever the train of thought, it brings us round to 
him, — Titian was certainly not a pietist in art, nor yet a manner- 
ist. He neither painted like a monk, nor like an academician : 
nor like an angel, as it was said of Raphael ; nor like a Titan, 
as one might say of Michael Angelo : but he painted like a bian ! 
like a man to whom God had given sense and soul, a free mind, a 
healthy and a happy temperament ; one whose ardent human sym- 
pathies kept him on earth, and humanized all his productions; 
who was satisfied with the beauty his mother Nature revealed to 
him, and reproduced the objects he beheld in such a spirit of love 
as made them lovely. Sorrow was to him an accidental visitation 
which threw no shadow either on his spirit or his canvass. He 
perhaps thought, like another old painter, that u il non mat fare 
altro die affaticarsi senza pigliarsi un piacere al ?nondo, non era 
cosa da Cliristiani" But the pleasures he so vividly enjoyed never 
seem to have either enslaved or sullied his clear healthful mind. 
He had never known sickness ; his labor was his delight ; and 
from the day he had learned to handle his pencil, he never passed 
a day without using it. His life of a century, spent, with the 
exception of a few occasional absences, in his beloved Venice, 
was one of the happiest, the most honored, the most productive, 
as it was one of the longest on record. 

Ludovico Dolce, who knew Titian personally, and was, for 



18 THE HOUSE OF TITIAN. 

many years, one of his social circle, assures us that " he was 
most modest ; that he never spoke reproachfully of other painters ; 
that, in his discourse, he was ever ready to give honor where honor 
was due ; that he was, moreover, an eloquent speaker, having an 
excellent wit and a perfect judgment in all things ; of a most 
sweet and gentle nature, affable and most courteous in manner ; so 
that whoever once conversed with him, could not choose but love him 
thenceforth for ever." On the whole, this praise was, probably, 
deserved ; but it is unsatisfactory to reflect that precisely the 
same praise, nearly in the same words, has been applied to 
Raphael ; and that Raphael and Titian were, in character and in 
temperament, the antipodes of each other. It sounds like a siring 
of approving phrases, which might apply to any amiable and dis- 
tinguished man. We wish to hear something of Titian more 
distinct, more discriminative — founded in a knowledge of those 
peculiar elements which made up his individuality, and which 
influenced every production of his mind and hand. That he was 
a man of great energy ; of a gay and genial temper ; indepen- 
dent, not so much from a love of liberty, as a love of ease ; of 
strong passions and affections ; and, notwithstanding the praise of 
his friend Ludovico, quite capable of hating a rival ; all this we 
may infer from various anecdotes of his life ; and that he was 
accomplished in the learning of his time, and fond of the society 
of learned men, is also apparent. It was not for his vices he 
loved Aretino, but in spite of them. Aretino had wit, learning, 
admirable taste in art ; and his attachment to Titian of thirty 
years, by its duration, proved its sincerity : but Titian had other 
and more honorable friendships ; and there is something very 
characteristic and touching also in the pleasure with which he 
represented himself and one or other of his intimate friends in the 
same picture. One of these twin portraits is at Windsor, and 
represents Titian and the Chancellor Franceschini ; another gives 
us Titian and his gossip [compare), Francesco Zuccati, the 



THE HOUSE OF TITIAN. 19 



" Maitre Mosa'iste,"* who is one of the principal personages in 
George Sand's beautiful Tale ; and there are other instances. 
Then we have himself and his mistress, or his wife ; and himself 
and his daughter. No painter has more stamped his soul, affections, 
and inmost being on the works of his hand, than did this magnificent 
and genial old man. Old, we say, in speaking of him ; for we see 
him ever with that furrowed brow, piercing eye, aquiline nose, and 
ample flowing beard, which his portraits exhibit : we think of him 
painting his Venus and Adonis when he was eighty ; and we can no 
more bring Titian before us as a young man, than we can fancy 
the angelic Raphael old. The venerable patriarchal dignity with 
which we invest the personal image of Titian in our minds is in 
contrast equally with the immortal loveliness of his works — full 
of the very " sap of life," — the untiring energy of his mortal 
career, and the miserable scene of abandonment which closed it. 

After a pilgrimage through the churches and palaces of Venice, 
after looking, every day, with ever new delight, on the " Presen- 
tation in the Temple," and the " Assumption" in the Academia, 
we had resolved to close our sojourn by a visit of homage to the 
house in which the great old master dwelt for fifty years (the 
half of his long life), and lived and loved, and laughed and quaffed 
with Aretino and Sansovino, and Bembo and Bernardo Tasso ; 
and feasted starry-eyed Venetian dames, and entertained princes, 
and made beauty immortal, and then — died — O, such a death ! a 
death which should seem, in its horror and its loathsomeness, to 
have summed up the bitterness of a life-long sorrow, in a few short 
hours ! 

It was not in the Barberigo Palace that Titian dwelt, nor did 
he, as has been supposed, work or die there. His residence, 

* D. Francesco del Musaico ; he stood godfather to a daughter of Titian, 
who died in her infancy; " Francesco e il mio compare ch' ei mi batizb 
una Puta che me morse" says Titian. 



20 THE HOUSE OF TITIAN. 

previous to his first famous visit to Bologna, was in a close and 
crowded part of Venice, in the Calle Gallipoli, near San Toma ; 
in the same neighborhood Giorgione had resided, but in an open 
space in front of the church of San Silvestro. The locality 
pointed out as Titian's residence is very much the same as it 
must have been in the sixteenth century; for Venice has not 
changed since then in expansion, though it has seen many other 
changes ; has increased in magnificence, — has drooped in decay. 
In this alley, for such it was and is, he lived for many years, a 
frugal as well as a laborious life ; his only certain resource being 
his pension as state painter, in which office he succeeded his mas- 
ter, Gian Bellini. When riches flowed in with royal patronage, 
he removed his atelier to a more spacious residence in a distant, 
beautiful quarter of the city ; and, without entering into any 
extravagance, he proved that he knew how to spend money, as 
well as how to earn money, to his own honor and the delight of 
others. 

It is curious that a house so rich in associations, and, as one 
should suppose, so dear to Venice, should, even now, be left 
obscure, half-ruined, well-nigh forgotten, after being, for two 
centuries, unknown, unthought of. It was with some difficulty 
we found it. The direction given to us was, " Nella contrada di 
S. Canciano, in Luogo appellate Biri-grande, nel campo Rotto, sopra 
la palude o Canale ch'e infdccia allisola di Murano dove ora stanno 
innahate le Fondamenta nuove :" minute enough one would think : 
but, even our gondolier, one of the most intelligent of his class, 
was here at fault. We went up and down all manner of canals, 
and wandered along the Fondamenta Nuove, a beautiful quay or 
terrace, built of solid stone, and running along the northern shore 
of this part of the city. Here we lingered about, so intoxicated 
with the beauty of the scene, and the view over the open Lagune, 
specked with gondolas gliding to and fro, animated by the evening 



THE HOUSE OF TITIAN. 21 

sunshine, and a breeze which blew the spray in our faces, that 
every now and then we forgot our purpose, only, however, to 
resume our search with fresh enthusiasm ; diving into the narrow 
alleys, which intersect, like an intricate net-work, the spaces 
between the canals ; and penetrating into strange nooks and 
labyrinths, which those who have not seen, do not know some of 
the most peculiar and picturesque aspects of Venice. 

We were now in San Canciano, near the church of the Gesuiti, 
and knew we must be close upon the spot indicated, but still it 
seemed to elude us. At length a young girl, looking out of a 
dilapidated, unglazed window, herself like a Titian portrait set in 
an old frame — so fresh — so young — so mellow-cheeked — with the 
redundant tresses and full dark eyes alia Veneziana, after peeping 
down archly on the perplexed strangers, volunteered a direction 
to the Casa di Tiziano, in the Campo Rotto ; for she seemed to 
guess, or had overheard our purpose. We hesitated ; not know- 
ing how far we might trust this extemporaneous benevolence. 
The neighborhood had no very good reputation in Titian's 
time ; and, as it occurred to me, had much the appearance of 
being still inhabited by persons delle quali e hello il tacere. But 
one of my companions gallantly swearing that such eyes could 
not play us false, insisted on following the instruction given ; and 
he was right. After threading a few more of these close narrow 
passages, we came upon the place and edifice we sought. That 
part of it looking into the Campo Rotto is a low wine-house, dig- 
nified by the title of the " Trattaria di Tiziano ;" and under its 
vine-shadowed porch sat several men and women regaling. The 
other side still looking into a little garden (even the very " delet- 
tevole giardino de Messer Tiziano "), is portioned out to various 
inhabitants : on the exterior wall some indications of the fresco 
paintings which once adorned it are still visible. A laughing, 
ruffianly, half-tipsy gondolier, with his black cap stuck roguishly 
on one side, and a countenance which spoke him ready for any 



22 THE HOUSE OF TITIAN. 

mischief, insisted on being our cicerone ; and an old shoemaker, 
or tailor, I forget which, did the honors with sober civility. We 
entered by a little gate leading into the garden, and up a flight of 
stone steps to an antique porch, overshadowed by a vine, which 
had but lately yielded its harvest of purple grapes, and now hung 
round the broken pillars and balustrades in long, wild, neglected 
festoons. From this entrance another flight of stone steps led up 
to the principal apartments, dilapidated, dirty, scantily furnished. 
The room which had once been the chief saloon and Titian's 
atelier, must have been spacious aud magnificent, capable of con- 
taining very large-sized pictures, — the canvass, for instance, of 
the Last Supper, painted for Philip II. We found it now por- 
tioned ofT by wooden partitions, into various small tenements ; 
still one portion of it remained, in size and loftiness oddly con- 
trasted with the squalid appearance of the inmates. About forty 
years ago, there was seen, on a compartment of the ceiling, a 
beautiful group of dancing Cupids. One of the lodgers, a certain 
Messer Francesco Breve, seized with a sudden fit of cleanliness, 
whitewashed it over ; but being made aware of his mistake, he tore 
it down, and attempted to cleanse off the chalk, for the purpose of 
selling it. What became of the maltreated relic is not known ; 
into such hands had the dwelling of Titian descended ! * 

* See the documents appended to a work, by the Abbate Cadorin, 
published in 1S33, and which bears the rather fantastic title, " Dello 
Amore di Tiziano per i Veneziani." The greater part and the more valu- 
able part of the quarto consists in the extracts from the public registers, 
&c, which have settled finally many dates and many disputed points rela- 
tive to the life and the residence of Titian. Of the diligence and good faith 
of the x\bbe Cadorin, there can be no doubt. I am not aware that there 
exists in any language a good life of Titian. Ridolfi and Ticozzi are full 
of mistakes, which have been copied into all other biographies. It is curi- 
ous that the earliest life of Titian (published at Venice in 1G22) was dedi- 
cated to an Englishwoman, the Countess of Arundel and Surrey. The 
dedication may be found in Bottari, Lettere Pittoriche, vol. i., p. 574. 



THE HOUSE OF TITIAN. 23 

The little neglected garden, which once sloped down to the 
shore, and commanded a view over the Lagune to Murano, was now 
shut in by high buildings, intercepting all prospect but of the sky, 
and looked strangely desolate. The impression left by the whole 
scene was most melancholy, and no associations with the past, no 
images of beauty and of glory, came between us and the intru- 
sive vulgarity of the present. 

Titian removed hither from the close neighborhood of San 
Toma, in the year 1531, and at that time a more beautiful site 
for the residence of a painter can hardly be conceived. Claude's 
house, on the Monte Pincio, at Rome, was not more suited to him 
than was the San Canciano to Titian. The building was nearly 
new ; it had been erected in 1527, by the Patrician Alvise Polani, 
and was then called the Casa Grande, to distinguish it from others 
in the neighborhood ; it stood detached, and facing the north : the 
garden, then a vacant space (terreno vacuo) reaching to the 
Lagune. In September, 1531, Titian hired from Bianca Polani, 
and her husband Leonardo Molini, the upper part of the house, at 
a yearly rent of forty ducats, and removed into it with all his 
family. He was then in his fifty-third year, and at the height of 
his reputation. In a renewal of the lease, in 1536, we find Titian 
called 11 celeberrimo D. Tiziano, which appears to us northerns rather 
a singular phrase to be introduced into a formal legal document. 

He had recently lost his wife Cecilia.* His eldest son, Pom- 
ponio, was about six years old ; his second son, Orazio, about 
three ; and his daughter, Lavinia, an infant of about a year old. 
His sister, Ursula, was at the head of his household, which she 
regulated for twenty years with great prudence and diligence. 

* Not Lucia, as she is called by Ticozzi. The dates of the birth of 
Titian's children are also given from the documents brought forward by 
Cadorin, and differ from former authorities. Cecilia died in 1530. V. 
Cadorin, note 19, p. 70. 



24 THE HOUSE OF TITIAN. 



Up to this time Titian had lived with frugality. Though honored 
and admired by his fellow-citizens, the prices he had received for 
his works were comparatively small. Could he have resolved to 
leave his beloved Venice he might have revelled in riches and 
honors, such as princes lavish on their favorites : Francis I., Leo 
X., and the Dukes of Mantua, Urbino, and Ferrara, had contended 
for the honor of attaching him to their service. " But," to quote 
his own words, in one of his memorials to the Doge and Council 
of Ten, " I preferred living in humble mediocrity, under the 
shadow of my natural lords, than in what prosperous condition 
soever under foreign princes ; and I have constantly refused all 
the proposals made to me, that I might remain near your Illus- 
trious Excellencies." What the princes of Italy had failed to 
accomplish, the Emperor Charles V., with all the allurements of 
his power, could not effect : he could not tempt the generous, 
high-souled painter to give up his independence and his country. 
It appears, however, that the patronage of the Emperor added 
considerably to his fortune : from the date of Titian's first visit to 
Bologna, where he painted the portraits of Charles V., Clement 
VII., the Cardinal de'Medici, the Duke of Alva, and from which 
he returned with 2000 gold crowns in his purse, we find him 
increasing in riches and honors. He had, at first, taken only the 
upper part of this house ; he then, from 1539, rented the whole 
of it ; and a few years later he took the piece of land, the terreno 
vacuo adjoining, which he fenced in and converted into a delicious 
garden, extending to the shore. No buildings then rose to ob- 
struct the view ; — the Fondamenta Nuove did not then exist. He 
looked over the wide canal, which is the thoroughfare between 
the city of Venice and the Island of Murano ; in front the two 
smaller islands of San Cristoforo* and San Michele ; and beyond 
them Murano, rising on the right, with all its domes and cam- 

* San Cristoforo is now a cemetery, and in one corner of it lies poor 
Leopold Robert, the painter. 



THE HOUSE OF TITIAN. 25 

panili, like another Venice. Far off extended the level line of 
the mainland, and, in the distance, the towering chain of the 
Friuli Alps, sublime, half defined, with jagged snow-peaks soar- 
ing against the sky ; and more to the left, the Euganean hills, 
Petrarch's home, melting, like visions, into golden light. There, 
in the evening, gondolas filled with ladies and cavaliers, and re- 
sounding with music, were seen skimming over the crimson 
waves of the Lagune, till the purple darkness came on rapidly — 
not, as in the north, like a gradual veil, but like a gemmed and 
embroidered curtain suddenly let down over all. This was the 
view from the garden of Titian ; so unlike any other in the 
world, that it never would occur to me to compare it with any 
other. More glorious combinations of sea, mountain, shore, there 
may be — I cannot tell ; like it, is nothing that I have ever beheld 
or imagined. 

In this beautiful residence dwelt Titian for the last fifty years 
of his life. He made occasional excursions to Bologna, Ferrara, 
Urbino, Mantua, Milan, and to Augsburg and Inspruck, in com- 
pliance with the commands of his princely patrons. But this 
was his home, to which he returned with ever-increasing love and 
delight, and from which no allurements could tempt him. He 
preferred, to the splendid offers of sovereigns, his independence, 
his friends, his art, his country — for such Venice had become to 
him — " la mia Venezia" as he fondly styles her. Nor did his 
love for his magnificent foster-mother diminish his affection for 
his little paternal home among the mountains. In proof of this 
we find the scenery of Pieve di Cadore perpetually reproduced in 
his pictures : the towering cliff, the castle, the wild, broken 
ground, the huge plane and chestnut trees, with their great 
wreathed roots, — these form the back-grounds of his classical and 
sacred subjects ; these furnished the features of his beautiful pas- 
toral landscapes and his harvest scenes — all of which are from 
nature. While, of Venetian localities, I can remember no in- 
3 



26 THE HOUSE OF TITIAN. 

stance, except the back-grounds of some of the historical pictures 
painted for the Doges. Among the sketches by Titian I have 
seen in various collections, I do not remember one taken from his 
garden at Venice. The solitary instance I have heard of, is the 
introduction of the bushy tree, with the round-shaped leaves, 
introduced into the fore-ground of the picture of St. Peter Martyr ; 
which is traditionally said to be a study from a certain tree which 
grew in his garden at San Canciano. The tradition, first men- 
tioned I believe by Zanetti,* is always repeated by those who 
show you the picture in the church of St. John and St. Paul. 
But if it be true that the San Pietro was painted in 1520, seven 
years before the house was built, and twenty years, at least, 
before the garden was laid out, what becomes of the tradition 1 
Unfortunately, dates and documents are inexorable things to deal 
with, " putting down" theories and traditions with plain matter 
of fact, to the utter confusion of the credulous and the affliction 
of the sentimental. 

But without having recourse to these doubtful stories, there 
remains enough of what is certain and indisputable to lend to the 
house of Titian a thousand charming associations. It is true 
that the Bacchus and Ariadne, the Four Ages, the Assumption, 
the Peter Martyr, and many of his finest pictures, were painted 
before he took up his residence here ;f but most of the pictures 
painted after 1531 were finished in this atelier, even when begun 
elsewhere. Here Ippolito de' Medicis sat to him on his return 
from Hungary, in his Hungarian costume. Here he painted the 
Venus of the Florence Gallery, The Entombment, the Ecce Homo 
of the Louvre, the St. Jerome of the Brera, the two Dianas in 

* " Trattato della Pittura," p. 159. Edit. 1792. 

\ The Bacchus and Ariadne, now in our National Gallery, was painted 
for the Duke of Ferrara in 1516 ; the Four Ages of the Bridgwater Gal- 
lery, in 1515 : the Assumption, in 1518 ; and the St. Peter Martyr, begun 
about 1516, was finished in 1520. See Ridolfi and Cadorini. 



THE HOUSE OF TITIAN. 27 

Lord Francis Egerton's Gallery, the Venus and Adonis, the Last 
Supper of the Escuriel, the San Nicolo in the Vatican, the Mar- 
tyrdom of St. Laurence, and hundreds of other cliefs-d'auvre,.* 
In his garden, after his day's work, the table was spread, and he 
supped with his friends Aretino, Sansovino, Cardinal Bembo, Car- 
dinal Trivulzi, Ludovico Dolce, Sperone Speroni. The conver- 
sations at his table gave rise to Dolce's Dialogo della Pittura, and 
neither music nor good cheer was wanting to the feast. Here the 
princely painter entertained Henry III. of France, with his suite 
of nobles, and all their attendants ; but it does not appear that 
Henry sat to him.f In fact, Titian painted few portraits during 
the last twenty years of his life ; he had been, on account of his 
great age rather than the loss of power, absolved from his state 
duty of painting the Doges — the seventh, and the last who sat to 
him, was the Doge Veniero, in 1558. 

We cannot think of Titian, gifted by nature with that sound, 
equable, and harmonious character, not often the concomitant of 
genius,^: and prosperous even to the height of his wishes, without 
picturing him to ourselves as a happy man ; and he must have 
been so on the whole, but sorrow found him as it finds all men. 
His son Pomponio must have been a perpetual source of pain and 
humiliation. He was an ecclesiastic who every way disgraced 
his profession, — apparently the excellent advice and exhortations 

* I believe we may add to this list the Presentation of the Virgin in the 
Temple, which has usually been supposed to be one of Titian's early pic- 
tures ; but the introduction of Bembo, in his cardinal's robes, shows that it 
must have been painted after 1539. Bembo was created cardinal in that 
year. See his Life. 

f I doubt whether even the art of Titian could have ennobled the mean, 
sickly, effeminate features of this odious King ; but he would probably 
have given us, as in his picture of Paul III., a wonderful transcript of 
nature. 

X Lanzi says, " Dal suo nascere, il Vecellio avea sortito uno spirito sodo, 
tranquillo, portato al vero piuttosto che al nuovo ; ed e quello spirito che 
forma siccome i veri litterati, cosi i veri pittori." 



28 THE HOUSE OF TITIAN. 

of Aretino were of less force than his example. Orazio, the 
second son of Titian, became his father's friend, companion, and 
manager of his interests in foreign courts. He was a very good 
painter, but worked so continually with his father as his assistant, 
that few separate works remain to attest his ability. One incident 
in the otherwise peaceful and laborious life of Orazio is so little 
known, and so singularly characteristic of the manners of that 
time, that I am tempted to give it here. There was a certain 
Leone Leoni, a sculptor, remarkable equally for his talents and 
his ruffianly vices. He had been banished successively from 
Rome, Ferrara, and Venice ; but still found patrons. A young 
man, his scholar, wearied of his tyranny and excesses, refused to 
leave Venice with him, and took refuge in the house of Titian, 
where he was received and kindly treated by Orazio. Leoni 
dispatched from Milan a hired assassin to murder the scholar in 
the house of his protector ; but the blow missed, and the assassin 
escaped. Two years afterwards, in 1559, Orazio was sent by his 
father to Milan, with sundry pictures, for which he was to receive 
payment. Here he found Leoni living in affluence, and was re- 
ceived by him with professions of friendship ; nor does it appear 
that Orazio was prevented, by his knowledge of Leoni's infamous 
character, from accepting his proffered kindness. On a certain 
evening, about the Ave-Maria, Orazio being seated in conversa- 
tion with Leoni, a thrush, which hung in the room, began to flut- 
ter, on which Orazio took off his cloak, and flung it over the cage. 
At the same time it happened that two of Orazio's servants were 
seen passing by, carrying the pictures of Titian to the ducal 
palace. Either from the immediate impulse of envy and jealousy, 
or from premeditated vengeance for the protection given to his 
scholar Martino, Leoni drew his dagger, and struck Orazio, who 
was occupied by the thrush, two blows, neither of which was 
mortal, and pursuing him to the door, inflicted several other 
wounds. Orazio escaped from the house, and took refuge with 



THE HOUSE OF TITIAN. 29 

one of his friends : and what renders the whole story as curious 
as it is revolting, is the fact, that Leoni, who was under deep 
obligation to Titian for many kind offices, received no punishment ; 
and that Orazio, after his recovery and return to Venice, memo- 
rialized the Council of Ten for the privilege of going armed him- 
self, and attended by an armed servant ; " being," as he averred, 
" in manifest peril of his life through the treachery of Leone 
Leoni, seeing that it was only through the benignity of his father's 
loving friend, the Lord Bishop of Bressa, who had given him an 
escort of armed men, that he had been able to return in safety to 
the bosom of his most happy and beloved nest (nido) in Venice," 
&c* The mild Orazio was evidently not overburthened with 
personal courage. He is said to have painted portraits admira- 
bly ; j* and Boschini mentions a portrait of a Venetian lady 
" vestida gravamente allm Veneziana" of great beauty, which was 
purchased in his time by a certain Pitt, an Englishman, who car- 
ried it away " to delight his eyes in England." One would like 
to know whether this " certo Pitti " was one of the progenitors of 
that noble family, and whether such a portrait of a Venetian lady 
be in the possession of any one bearing the name ? 

Titian's beautiful daughter Lavinia, the youngest and best 
beloved of his children, died before her father. He had often 
painted her ; and seems to have so delighted in her society, that 
he could not easily part with her. One of the last pictures for 
which she served him as a model, was the Pan and Syrinx,:): now 
in the Palazzo Barberigo, and apparently never quite finished. 
In March, 1555, Titian bestowed his daughter, with a noble 

* See the legal documents and depositions given at length by Cadorin, 
p. 50. 

f V. Ridolfi, v. *., p. 200, and Lanzi. 

| As his eulogist observes, " Pensiero per verita capriccioso e intorno a 
cui si potrebbe filosofare, ma non so con qual frutto. II Vecellio ne avra 
avuto la sua ragione." 



30 THE HOUSE OF TITIAN. 

dowry,* on Cornelio Scarsenello, of Serravalle, in Cadore. She 
became the mother of six children, and died in childbirth about 
1561. 

The Abbe Cadorin believes that Lavinia, and the circumstances 
of her death, form the subject of a very singular picture, which 
is, or was lately, in the possession of Mr. Morrison, of Harley 
Street, and of which there is a well-known etching by Van Dyck. 
A very different interpretation has been given to this picture ; but 
when we recollect the supposed cause and circumstances of La- 
vinia's death ; the age of Titian, who, in the picture, is an old 
man of eighty at least ; we can hardly doubt that this hypothesis 
of Cadorin is the true one. My own belief, after observation of 
the picture, is, that it represents Lavinia at the age of twenty- 
eight or thirty ; that it was begun by Titian before her death, 
and that after her death, the head of Titian, the too significant 
action, the death's head in the casket, and the Latin inscription, 
were added — not perhaps by Titian himself — but by Orazio, or 
one of his scholars ; this, however, is only a supposition, which 
must go for what it is worth. 

As for the beautiful Violante Palma, supposed to have been 
Titian's early love, as some say his mistress, and as others say, 
his wife, — it seems quite in vain to attempt to reconcile the con- 
flicting dates, traditions, and testimonies, with regard to her. All 
that we can regard as certain is, that the same person (and a 
most beautiful creature she must have been) was the model of 
Giorgione, of Palma, and of Titian, for so we must conclude from 
the evident identity of a face painted by all these artists under 
different names. 

The tradition has been constant that this person was Violante, 
one of the three daughters of the elder Palma, and that she was 
beloved by Titian. But, say the critics, " how could she be the 

* He gave her 2400 ducats in money and jewels. 



THE HOUSE OF TITIAN. 31 

love of Titian, since Palma, according to Vasari, was born in 
1525 ? Titian must have been an old man of eighty while she 
was yet a child." 

Now it is no little comfort to find that if dates and documents 
sometimes confound the enthusiasm of the credulous, they also, 
sometimes, put to shame the sneers of the incredulous ; and an 
examination of certain particulars will, at least, help to determine 
what was possible and what impossible. Vasari, notoriously un- 
scrupulous with regard to dates, must be set aside ; for it is 
proved from official documents that Palma was a painter of emi- 
nence in 1520. Cadorin sees reason to suppose that he was the 
cotemporary of Titian, and born about 1480 ; therefore, in 1516, 
he might have had a daughter old enough, and lovely enough, to 
be introduced as one of the nymphs into the Bacchanal painted 
for the Duke of Ferrara,* — for so the tradition ran ; — she might 
even be the original of the picture in the Manfrini Palace, cele- 
brated by Lord Byron — this is asserted (though, for my own part, 
I do not believe it), — and of the exquisite portrait in the Pitti 
Palace ; and the yet more delicious Flora in the Florence Galle- 
ry ; and the Venus of Paris Bordone. With regard to the por- 
traits of Violante, by her father, there can be no doubt. One is 
at Vienna, head and bust only ; and to express her name she has 
a violet in her bosom. She appears in this picture as a young 
girl — about seventeen, full-formed, with a face of exquisite beau- 
ty, somewhat pensive in expression, and with very fair hair, 
apparently of the artificial tint already described. The other is 
at Dresden, in the same picture with her two sisters, Violante 
being the centre figure. The divine St. Barbara, in the church 
of S. Maria Formosa, at Venice, is also the portrait of Violante, 
and her father's masterpiece. With regard to the picture in the 
Louvre, called Titian's Mistress, as far as I can compare it in 

* Now in Spain in the Madrid Gallery. 



32 THE HOUSE OF TITIAN. 

memory with these portraits, I should suppose it to represent 
quite a different person ; neither can I subscribe to the theory 
of those who fancy that this most beautiful Contadina is the por- 
trait of the Laura who was married to Alphonso of Ferrara, after 
the death of his first wife, Lucretia Borgia. If the Santa Giusti- 
na, at Vienna, with Alphonso kneeling at her feet, represents this 
beautiful Laura, — and I hope it does, — then the picture in the 
Louvre is a different person. The man in this picture certainly 
bears a resemblance to the Duke Alphonso, and no resemblance 
whatever to Titian. But the question could only be set at rest 
by bringing all these pictures into close comparison with each 
other, — a thing impossible. A comparison of the engravings, or 
of copies would not suffice. 

What became of the beautiful Violante we do not know. She 
is named, with Paola Sansovino and La Franceschini, among the 
ladies who adorned Titian's garden suppers ; but whether we 
have any grounds for associating her memory with the house at 
San Canciano, is, I think, doubtful. 

Of his other associates, Bembo died in 1547, Aretino in 1559, 
and Sansovino in 1586. The death of Aretino, his fast friend 
and companion for thirty-five years, touched him most. The 
perpetual, unavoidable association of the name and fame of Titian 
with the measureless infamy of this dissolute man, is very painful. 
But the worst are not wholly bad ; and no one has denied the 
strength and sincerity of Aretino's attachments where he really 
loved, and particularly his devoted friendship for Titian. 

As to the degrading and deteriorating influence which Aretino 
is said to have exercised over the morals, genius, and productions 
of Titian, I do not believe in any such influence. I did once, 
and had a strong feeling on the subject ; more knowledge — or 
rather less ignorance — has changed my opinion. We have the 
united testimony of all Titian's cotemporaries, with regard to the 



THE HOUSE OF TITIAN. 33 

becoming dignity and decorum of his manners. Aretino was 
twenty years younger than Titian ; their friendship did not com- 
mence till about 1527 ; and I must observe, that such was the 
reputation of Aretino, at that time, that even the severe Michael 
Angelo addressed him with respect, and called him " brother " 
(Fratello mio) ; and the grave and virtuous Vittoria Colonna was 
in correspondence with him. If Aretino had been the friend of 
the mild and modest Correggio, we should probably have attributed 
to his influence or inspiration several pictures, which we have 
reason to wish that Correggio had never painted. The truth is, that 
the artists of the sixteenth century took their impress from the 
age ; and what an age it was, — how brilliant and how polluted ! 
The predominance in Italy of certain great families, remarkable 
for their public vices and the atrocities of their domestic history, 
the Borgia, Medici, Farnese, Este, and Gonzago races, in all 
their branches, had infected Italy from north to south, — had 
made every excess of the most flagitious wickedness common- 
place : the dregs left behind by the savage and depraved mer- 
cenaries of France and Germany complete a picture from which 
the mind would recoil in unmingled disgust, if the wonderful 
activity and brilliance of intellect displayed did not dazzle us, and 
the working out of a new spirit, which we are now able to trace 
through all this mass of corruption, did not fix our attention. 
Aretino was the rank product of this rank age, which yet he had 
sense enough, and wit enough, to estimate truly, even while con- 
centrating all its characteristics of baseness and sensuality in his 
own person. 

The profligate churchmen, and the vicious and perfidious 
princes of his time, whether they were the themes of his flattery 
or his satire, seem to have been, at least, the perpetual objects of 
his absolute and bitter scorn. His praise and his invective were 
put up to public sale ; all was open, shameless barter or bribery, 
of which, as it seems to me, the greater infamy does not fall on 
3* 



34 THE HOUSE OF TITIAN. 

Aretino. But not longer to defile my pen and paper with the sub- 
ject, I will only observe, that Aretino had a true judgment 
in art ; — the tone of criticism, all through his letters (I allude of 
course to those in the collection of Bottari), is excellent. 

There are several portraits of Aretino, by Titian ; one, in the 
Munich Gallery, which represents him as a young man, is 
remarkable for the lofty intellectual brow and refined expression. 
And there is a famous engraving by Marc Antonio, of the 
authenticity of which, as a portrait, there can be no doubt, as it is 
alluded to by Aretino himself. It exhibits a head of great power, 
but with a debased and sensual expression, which must be charac- 
teristic. As a piece of art this engraving is wonderful. If both 
these portraits represent Aretino, the depravation of the head and 
countenance in the second one is a lesson in morals and in phy- 
siology, worth consideration. 

After the death of Aretino, Titian quitted his house and Venice, 
for a time, and went into the Friuli, where he spent some months 
with Andrea, lord of Spilimbergo, and gave some instructions in 
painting, to his accomplished daughter, Irene.* 

But, after a while, he returned to Venice, and found, in his 
incessant devotion to his art, his best consolation. On the whole, 
we must agree with Vasari, who, when he visited Titian, in his 
house at San Canciano, and found him, in his 90th year, still 
cheerful and healthful, in full possession of his faculties, and 
looking back on a long life of glory and prosperity, pronounced 
him happiest among mortal men. But then came the closing 
scene ; so dark and dismal, that it seemed as if the destinies 
would, at last, be avenged on their favorite. Here, in this same 
house, Titian lay dying of the pestilence, which had half depopu- 

* Lanzi reckons Irene da Spilimbergo among the scholars of Titian, and 
notices, with praise, three pictures by her. 



THE HOUSE OF TITIAN. 35 

lated Venice ; — on a bed near him, his son Orazio. The curators 
of the sick, in the sternly-pitiful fulfilment of their office, carried 
off Orazio to the plague-hospital ; but they left the old man, for 
whom there was no hope, — and who was, even then, in the 
death-gasp, — to die alone. It appears that, before he could have 
ceased to breathe, some of those wretches who come as surely in 
the train of such horrors as vultures in the rear of carnage — rob- 
bers, who went about spoiling the dead and the dying — entered 
his room, ransacked it, carried off his jewels, the gifts of princes, 
valuable cups and vases chased in gold and silver, — and, worse 
than all, some of his most precious pictures. Let us hope that 
the film of death was already on his eyes ; that he saw it not — 
felt it not. He died on the 27th of August, 1576. 

Even in that hour of terror and affliction, the Venetian State 
could not overlook the honors due to their glorious painter. The 
rites of burial were, by law, suspended ; but an exception was 
made for Titian. He was carried to the grave with such solemnity 
as the calamitous times would permit — and buried, as he himself 
had willed, at the foot of the Altar of the Crucifix, in the Church 
of the Frari. 

It is worth noting that the last picture on which Titian worked, 
before he died (a sketch left unfinished), was a figure of St. 
Sebastian, who is, in Italy, regarded as the patron saint against 
plague and pestilence ; — probably intended as a votive offering 
from himself, or some other, when the scourge had passed away. 
It is now in the Barberigo Palace. 

Another picture, on which he had been working up to the time 
of his death, was the Pieta, now in the Academy at Venice. 
Titian intended this picture to be placed over his own tomb, in 
the Chapel of the Crucifixion. It represents a niche or arch of 
rustic architecture ; on one side the statue of Moses ; — on the 
other, that of the Sybil Hellespontica ; within the niche sits the 



36 THE HOUSE OF TITIAN. 

Virgin, bearing the dead Redeemer on her knees ; Mary Magdalen, 
with out-stretched arms, is lamenting aloud, and comes forward, 
as if she called on the spectators to sympathize in her sorrow ; — 
near the Saviour, and supporting one of his arms, kneels the figure 
of an aged man almost undraped, meagre and wrinkled, with a 
bald head, and a long flowing beard. This has been supposed, 
by some critics, to be Joseph of Arimathea ; according to others, 
a St. Jerome. My own impression, when I stood before the 
picture, was, that Titian had intended to represent himself. I 
mention this merely as the impression, before I was aware of any 
interpretation given to the picture, which is very peculiar in con- 
ception — quite different from the usual treatment ; the execution, 
however, is feeble. To the younger Palma, his scholar, was 
entrusted the task of preparing this picture for its destination. 
He did so ; placing conspicuously on it a touching inscription, to 
this effect : — " That which Titian left unfinished, Palma reve- 
rently completed, and dedicated the work to God." The picture 
is now placed in the Gallery of the Academia, while the monu- 
ment to Titian is in progress. Whether it will be restored to the 
Altar — its original destination — I could not learn. 

But we must return, once more, to the house at San Canciano. 
After the death of Titian and the cessation of the plague, Pomponio 
Vecelli hastened to Venice, to take possession of his inheritance. 
Though a dissipated, he was not absolutely a worthless man ; for 
we find that he bestowed, as a gift,* the estates at Cadore on the 
children of his sister Lavinia. The house at San Canciano 
reverted to the proprietors ; but, as it was proved that Titian was 
a creditor to the amount of 510 ducats, which they were unable 
to pay, the house remained in possession of Pomponio ; and he 
sold his interest in it to Cristoforo Barberigo, together with a 
number of his father's pictures, which Barberigo removed to his 
palace at San Polo, where they are now to be seen. 

* {In dono.) See the document in Cadorin. 



THE HOUSE OF TITIAN. 37 

Nothing more is known of Pomponio, except that he dissipated 
his patrimony, and was living in obscurity and poverty in the year 
1595. In 1581, Barberigo lent or gave the house at San Canciano 
to the painter Francesco da Ponte, the son of old Bassano. After 
inhabiting it for about ten years, Francesco threw himself from the 
window, in a fit of insanity, and was killed on the spot. This 
happened on the 4th of July, 1592. 

The next inhabitant was again a painter. Leonardo Corona, 
one of the Venetian mannerists, who most successfully imitated 
Titian, rented the house from Barberigo, and lived there for ten 
years. 1 remember one good picture by this painter : an 
Annunciation over one of the altars in the Frari. There are 
others at Venice, but I cannot recall them. He died here in 
1605. 

Cristoforo Barberigo left the house of Titian, by will, to his 
natural son Andrea ; but the pictures by Titian, which he had 
purchased from Pomponio, he left to his legal heirs, to descend as 
an inalienable heir-loom in the family. This is the reason we 
find them still preserved in the Barberigo Palace. Andrea left 
the house to his daughter Chiara ; and her husband, one Marconi 
residing at Rome, sold it, in 1674, to Pietro Berlendis, a patrician 
of Venice. At this period the house was let out in various tene- 
ments, but apparently to persons of condition. We find among 
the lodgers two sisters of the Faliero family.* All this time the 
heirs of the original proprietor, Alviso Polani, had certain claims 
on the estate ; but these were finally paid off; and, in 1759, the 
house and garden became, bonajide, the property of the Berlendis 
family. 

As the house decayed it continued to be rented by various 
lodgers ; and these became gradually of the poorer class — 
mechanics, tradesmen, gondoliers — till we come to that Ser 
Francesco Breve, who tore down the Cupids from the ceiling, 

* Cadorin, document G. p. 121. 



THE HOUSE OF TITIAN. 



about 1805. In 1812 Pietro, Baron Berlendis, ruined by the 
political revolutions of his country, sold the house and its appen- 
dages, which had been in his family 150 years, to four brothers, 
named Locatelli ; and these, again, in 1826, sold it to a certain 
Antonio Busetto, who is, I believe, the present proprietor. At what 
period the edifices were erected along the Fondamente Nuove, 
which now shut out the view of the Lagune from the house and 
garden, I do not find ; they have not, by any means, the appearance 
of new buildings, and are very lofty. 

This is the history of the house of Titian. It is going fast to 
ruin, and has long been desecrated by mean uses and vulgar 
inmates ; yet, as long as one stone stands upon another, it will 
remain one of the monuments of Venice. When I visited the 
place of his rest, at the foot of the altar of the crucifix in the 
" Frari," I found the site closed in with boards ; and was told 
that a magnificent tomb was at last to be erected over his hitherto 
almost nameless grave. What it is to be, I know not ; something, 
perhaps, in the most egregious bad taste — a mere job — like that 
of Canova. But, whatever it may be, good or bad, it seems to me 
that it is now too late for anything of the kind. On what monu- 
ment could we look with more respect than on a tablet inscribed 
with his name ; leaving out, of course, the common-place doggrel 
about Zeuxis and Apelles ?* And what performance, in the way 
of " storied urn or animated bust," will not suggest a comparison 
with his own excelling works ? What can do him more honor 
than the simple recognition of his excellence, living, as it does, in 
the divine productions of his art, which are everywhere around 
us 1 How much better to have restored his house — that home he 
so loved — and converted it into some national institution ? It as 

* The inscription, 

" Qui giace il gran Tiziano Vecelli 
Emulator dei Zeusi e degli Apelli," 
was written by one of the monks of the convent. 



THE HOUSE OF TITIAN. 39 

much deserves this distinction as the Palace of the Foscari :* the 
size and situation are even more favorable for such a purpose ; 
and this would have been a monument worthy of the generous 
heart of Titian. Arqua still boasts of the house of Petrarch ; — 
Ferrara still shows, with pride, the little study of Ariosto ; — 
Sorrento, the cradle of Tasso ; — Urbino, the modest dwelling in 
which Raphael saw the light; — Florence, the Casa Buonarotti. 
In Venice the house of Titian is abandoned to the most heartless 
neglect ; and the people now think as little of it as we do of the 
house in Crutched Friars, where Milton wrote his " Paradise 
Lost." If it were in a village, three hundred miles off, we should 
be making pilgrimages to it ; but the din of a city deafens the 
imagination to all such voices from the dead. 

* Which is to be converted into a School of Engineers. 



II. 



ADELAIDE KEMBLE 



AND THE LYRICAL DRAMA IN 1841. 



Written to accompany a series of full-length Drawings executed by Mr. 
John Hayter, for the Marquess of Titchfield, representing Miss Kemble in 
all the characters in which she had appeared, and the most striking 
passages of each. 



ADELAIDE KEMBLE. 43 



ADELAIDE KEMBLE, 

(August, 1843.) 

How often we have had cause to regret that the histrionic art, of 
all the fine arts the most intense in its immediate effect, should be, 
of all others, the most transient in its result ! — and the only me- 
morials it can leave behind, at best, so imperfect and so unsatis- 
factory ! When those who have attained distinguished celebrity 
in this department of art retire from the stage, it is the most 
mournful of all departures for those who disappear, and for those 
who are left behind ; for there is no other bond between the 
public and its idol than this unlimited sympathy of mutual 
presence. Adelaide Kemble exists to us no more. She has 
retired within the sacred precincts of domestic lite, whither 
those who made her the subject of public homage, or public 
criticism, will not presume to follow her, except with silent 
blessing, heartfelt good-wishes, and grateful thoughts for remem- 
bered pleasure, mingled, perhaps, with some regrets, to waken up 
whenever her name is heard, — as heard it will be. Her short 
career, as a dramatic artist, has become a part of the history of 
our country's Drama ; — as such, it must be recorded ; — as such, 
it will be the subject hereafter of comparison — of reference. 
Those who imagine that when the distinguished artist, whose life 
and destinies have in a manner mingled with our own, is with- 
drawn from our sight, sympathy and memory are extinguished, 
commit a great mistake. Without entering here into the ques- 
tion of its expediency or inexpediency, public or private, — since 



44 ADELAIDE KEMBLE. 



it is a necessity, — since the record must and will live, — it had 
better live in a form that is dignified by its instructiveness and 
its truth, than in a form degraded by levity and untruth ; and 
therefore it is that this sketch, which was at first intended to be 
strictly private, is here allowed a place : that a name and a fame, 
familiar to the many, might be rescued from vulgar and ephe- 
meral criticism, and take — as far as this inadequate tribute may 
avail — the place they deserve to hold in our memory. 

When Johnson said of Garrick, that " his death had eclipsed 
the gaiety of nations," he expressed a simple fact, which yet was 
only a part of the whole truth. Not gaiety only, not merely the 
amusement of an idle hour, have we owed to the great artist, — 
more especially the great vocal and lyrical artist, — but that 
blessed relief from the pressure of this working-day world ; that 
genial warming up of the spirit, under the sympathetic influences 
of beauty, passion, power, poetry, melody, which fuses together a 
multitude of minds in the one delicious and kindred feeling ; — 
and surely this is much to be thankful for ! Those who have 
felt and acknowledged the influence of this fascination have too 
generally, and under the excitement of the moment, exhibited 
their gratitude by impulses as short-lived, by tributes as empty, 
by rewards as glittering, as the mere stage triumph ; shouts and 
bravoes, — some tears perhaps, forgotten as soon as shed, — jewels, 
flowers, flattery, lip-homage, — all that is readiest and easiest to 
pay. But never, certainly, did chivalrous admiration tender a 
more elegant and appropriate homage than in the series of Draw- 
ings which this memoir was written to illustrate. It was surely 
a beautiful thought, that of summoning a kindred art to give 
permanence to what seemed in its nature so transient — the charm 
of the momentary action, the varied turns of expression, the grace 
of which words could only preserve the record, not the image. 
And as the idea was in itself beautiful, so it has been beautifully 
carried out : Mr. Hayter has avoided those mistakes into which 



ADELAIDE KEMBLE. 45 



one, with less feeling, — one who had less sympathy with the 
object, and less enthusiasm for the subject of his work, would 
inevitably have been betrayed. These Drawings are a good ex- 
ample of what such representations ought to be ; they were to 
be as faithful as could be required to the moment, to the action, 
to the expression : they were to be scenic, dramatic, but, at the 
same time, they were to be poetical, and as far as possible removed 
from the theatrical ; — and herein lay the difficulty, — conquered, 
I must say, with singular felicity. While the figure and action 
of the principal person are given with portrait-like fidelity, down 
to the very minutise of her dress, the accompaniments are gene- 
ralized, and all that could recall the conventional stage arrange- 
ments, and stage effects, has been carefully avoided. Thus they 
have all the value of truth, and all the charm of fancy. They 
appeal to the imagination and to the memory without recalling, 
for one moment, any associations but those of graceful movement 
and delicious song ; and if the record I am about to trace should 
add to such associations some others, from a higher and a deeper 
source of interest, it will at least be not unworthy of its aim, and 
the motive which gave it birth. 

Any one who had undertaken to write of Adelaide Kemble 
without knowing her personally, could never have done justice to 
her artistic excellence. For one, to whom she has long been 
personally known, to write of her merely as an artist, is very 
difficult. 

It has been said, and with a plausible appearance of candor, 
that, in estimating the distinguished artist in any department of 
art, the moral qualities of the individual, apart from the manifes- 
tation of the genius, concern us not ; that our business is with the 
processes, mental, moral, or accidental (if anything be accidental), 
through which it is produced and perfected : that in bringing these 
considerations to bear on the principal subject, we hazard injus- 



46 ADELAIDE KEMBLE. 



tice, if we do not offer indignity, to the object of our admiration. 
Yet to set such considerations wholly aside, what is it but to con- 
found the artist with the artisan ? It is a matter of indifference 
to me who made this table at which I write. It is no matter of 
indifference to me who wrote this book I read ; from what mind 
emanated these words over which I have shed burning tears : 
whose hand fixed on the canvass these forms which are to me as 
a revelation from heaven. It is, on the contrary, of the highest 
import to me that I should know that which I must needs love, and 
be able to approve where I am called on to admire. The eager 
curiosity, the insatiate interest with which we seek to penetrate 
the characters, to disclose the existence of those on whom the 
public gaze has been fixed in delight and wonder, is among the 
strongest forms of human sympathy. We have been forced to 
feel their power through every pulse of our being : — in return we 
would " pluck out the heart of their mystery." This form of 
sympathy may be very inconvenient to its object, and sometimes 
very suspicious in its motive, and oftentimes very indiscreet in its 
application : but to say that it is wrong, that it either can be, or 
ought to be, otherwise, is both false and absurd. It is so ; and 
as long as human beings are constituted as they are, it must he 
so. What great artist ever lived and worked in this world with 
regard to whom fame was not " love disguised ?" The genius 
which could be wholly analyzed without reference to the perso- 
nalite, would be wanting in all that gives genius its value on earth 
— the power of awakening to sympathy, and exciting to action. 
Where the moral qualities of the artist have not strongly influ- 
enced his art, that art, in its manifestation, has had no deep nor 
lasting influence on others. In fact, to unravel and divide the 
character, and setting aside the woman in all her womanly rela- 
tions with society, exhibit only the artist, would be to convert the 
" burning and the shining light " into a hollow, flimsy transpa- 



ADELAIDE KEMBLE. 47 



rency ; — to set up what Carlyle calls a simulacrum in place of the 
living, breathing, heart-warming reality. 

The true artist organization, fully developed by exercise of its 
predominant faculties, will always retain something child-like : I 
should even say, judging from examples I have met with, some- 
thing childish. I use the word with no irreverence. The Coun- 
tess Faustina says, characteristically, " What I do not know, I 
cannot learn ;" and so it often is with artist minds of a high 
order. Through passion, through power, through suffering, we 
effect much : unless to these are added faculties of comparison, 
reflection, sympathy — we do not learn much. And by sympathy 
I do not mean here the instincts of benevolence or pity, but the 
power of throwing one's own being into the being of another. The 
artist mind, on the contrary, absorbs other minds into itself; such 
characters are objects to others, they do not make objects of others, 
unless there be the desire to possess. The faculties through which 
we learn are precisely those which the artist either exercises not 
at all, or within a limited range : the judgment is not often 
brought to bear on realities ; -the sympathies recoil from the 
practical and flow into the imaginative part of the being. Hence 
it is that minds of this class, otherwise highly gifted and surpris- 
ingly developed in power of a particular kind, — artist minds, as 
long as they exist chiefly in and for their art, their faculties bent 
on working, creating, representing, — often remain immature in 
judgment, and unfitted to cope with the actual. Experience 
either comes to them more slowly and at a later period than to 
most others ; or, if it come, it teaches nothing ; they never seem 
the wiser for it. In such minds experience is not material for 
conduct, but material for fancy, and their theory and their prac- 
tice are found strangely and unconsciously at variance ; — in 
short, they remain children ; and — spite of all their faults and 
provocations — one is tempted to add, " Of such are the kingdom 
of heaven ;" so ethereal are they, compared to those whose minds 



48 ADELAIDE KEMBLE. 



have been shaped by pressure of outer circumstances — like clay, 
instead of being developed from within, like the flower. 

Some artist-natures, with which my own has been brought into 
contact, I have likened in my impatience to ill-managed wall- 
fruit — ripe, rich, blooming, luscious on one side ; on the other, 
immature, defective, sometimes worse — hard, if not rotten. 

How far in such natures we might bring the balance right, 
through watchful discipline and due cultivation, is a question: — 
how much might be gained, how much lost — for something would 
certainly be lost in the process — and how far such natures, and 
how far society, would be benefited by the result, are also ques- 
tions not to be hastily answered. One thing is certain, the Dar- 
teneufs in art would fare the worse ; they would lose their " bite 
out of the sunny side of the peach." 

Such reflections may appear rather too general and serious for 
the matter in hand, — the eloge of an accomplished singer ; but 
they will not be deemed out of place, nor, as I trust, in danger of 
misapprehension, where the theme is such a woman and such an 
artist as Adelaide Kemble. With her, as with every true woman, 
the intellect and the genius were modified by the sensibilities and 
the moral qualities. With her, as with every great artist, her 
art was not a profession merely, — accidental and divisible from 
the rest of her existence : it was in her blood, in her being, a 
part of the material of her life. Was she not a Kemble born — 
the true daughter of her race ? And though in her the artistic 
organization was more than balanced by large sympathies and 
warm affections, it was of force enough to give the bent to her 
disposition, and determine the vocation. Not that Adelaide Kem- 
ble could ever have found her sole, or even her highest happiness, 
in her theatrical vocation ; not that the loftiest triumph of gratified 
ambition, however nobly directed, could have sufficed to such a 
heart, " or have filled full the soul hungry for joy." But the 



ADELAIDE KEMBLE. 49 

experiment was to be tried. Till it had been tried, till a part of 
her life had flowed out in this, its natural direction, she never, as 
I firmly believe, could have entered with satisfaction, or a settled 
mind, or assurance in herself, on any other condition of existence. 
Yet in her case, as in her sister's, there were prejudices to be 
overcome, or, at least, pre-arrangements to be set aside. She was 
first, at the age of seventeen, intended for a concert singer, with- 
out any view to the stage.* Her magnificent voice, naturally a 
contralto, was more remarkable at this time for volume and 
quality of tone, than for compass and flexibility. The range of 
power and execution necessary for a dramatic singer, was to be 
acquired only by long and profound study, and incessant practice. 
To attain that command over her voice, which was to be with her 
a means, not an end, she went first to Paris, and placed herself 
under the tuition of Bordogni for three years. She then visited 
Germany ; revisited England in the spring of 1838 ; and in the 
same year proceeded to Italy, for the purpose of practice and 
improvement. 

Her first theatrical engagement was made for the Theatre at 
Trieste. On her way from Milan to Trieste she was detained at 
Venice. The Impresario there, the Marchese Pallavicini, whose 
Prima Donna had failed, and who was at a loss how to finish his 
season, prevailed on her to appear for one night. This accident 
was the cause of her making her first appearance as a singer and 
actress on the stage of the Fenice, at Venice. 

* She made her first appearance, as a concert singer, in London, and 
subsequently at the York festival in 1S34. She failed, or, at least, produced 
no effect. She had not been sufficiently prepared by study ; her appearance 
was, I have heard, contrary to her own wishes, and she had not the free 
and entire use of her own powers, even as far as they were developed. It 
would be difficult for those who have seen her tread the stage in Semira- 
mide to imagine, how timid she was, how gauche, how totally devoid of 
self-possession at this time, and for a long time afterwards. 
4 



50 ADELAIDE KEMBLE. 

The opera was the " Norma;" her success complete, notwith- 
standing a degree of timidity and emotion which had nearly over- 
powered her self-possession. She sang in the same opera seven 
more nights at the other theatre, the San Benedetto, and with 
increasing effect and popularity. She then proceeded to fulfil her 
engagement at Trieste. 

She remained in that city for about three months, and sang 
with great success, first in the Gemma di Vergy, a poor part, and 
not well calculated either for acting or singing, and then in 
Ricci's " Nozze di Figaro." This last opera, though full of 
charming music, failed in consequence of two cabals at the same 
time, — Mazzucato's party, who wished his opera of" Esmeralda " 
to carry the day, and the party of Conte Tasca, whose wife (La 
Taccani) was the other Prima Donna, and who tried to make 
everything fail in which she did not sing. This, perhaps, was the 
first initiation of a high and generous spirit into the mean in- 
trigues and tracasseries of the Italian theatres. Long experience 
rendered such displays of selfishness and envious temper a mere 
matter of course ; but even when use had lessened the amaze- 
ment and disgust with which they were at first encountered, the 
sense of the painful and the ridiculous remained to the last. 

From Trieste Adelaide returned to Milan, and made her first 
appearance at the Scala, in the " Lucia di Lammermoor." In 
consequence of one of those intrigues de theatre to which I have 
alluded, and which, in this particular instance, had arrayed 
against her the whole corps d'opera, and even the Impresario him- 
self, she had nearly failed ; but recovered her hold on the public 
sympathies ; maintained her position, and sang for sixteen nights 
with increasing success. 

She then proceeded to Padua, and sang there in Mercad ante's 
" Elena da Feltre " with the highest, the most enthusiastic ap- 
plause. Then succeeded a long illness, produced by being called 
on to sing- when under the influence of fever. During an interval 



ADELAIDE KEMBLE. 51 

of several months she did not appear before the public, at least 
not on the stage. She remained at Bologna, studying for the 
greatest part of the time, under the direction of Mercadante and 
Cartagenova, — the former the most profound musician, the latter 
the most accomplished lyrical actor, in Italy. 

Her next appearance was at Mantua, where she sang in the 
" Lucia " and " Elena de Feltre," with complete success. 
Thence she proceeded to Naples, where she sang for ten months 
with increasing popularity, before the most fastidious audiences in 
Italy, in the " Beatrice di Tenda," the " Otello," the " Due Fi- 
garo," an opera buffa of Speranza ; in the "Bravo" of Merca- 
dante, the "Norma," and the " Sonnambula ;" acquiring in every 
new part added power, and added celebrity. She was at the 
height of her reputation, and might now have commanded her own 
terms on any stage in Italy, when the news of her father's dan- 
gerous illness recalled her suddenly to England. She arrived in 
London in April, 1841, after an absence of three years; during 
half that period she had sung in public, the rest of the time had 
been devoted to unremitting study of her art. 

Of her existence in Italy taken altogether, — its vicissitudes, its 
triumphs, and its trials, — enough has been said as preparatory to 
her career in England : yet the retrospect suggests some reflec- 
tions which may find a place here. In Italy, the prestige of her 
name, her acknowledged position in her own country, the highest 
qualities of mind and heart, absolutely went for nothing in the 
estimate formed of her publicly and privately ; but as a secret 
source of self-respect, even there they availed much. They 
"bore her, dolphin-like, above the element she moved in." 
Brought into close contact with the meanly malignant rivalries, 
the vicious recklessness of a theatrical life, every way far below 
the lowest and the worst we can imagine of the same existence 



52 ADELAIDE KEMBLE. 



here, she appears to have steered her course through all that was 
base and perilous, as one whom it could not touch, — as one who, 
morally speaking, bore a charmed life. True it is, that what was 
revolting and contemptible, was at the same time too open, gross, 
and palpable to present danger or perplexity to such a mind as 
hers. But this was not her only, nor her best safeguard. 

Even in the depth of weariness and disgust, inspired by the low 
moral state of those around her, her appreciation of the beautiful 
and the good, wherever they were to be found, left her not with- 
out some sources of pure and heartfelt pleasure, apart from the 
exercise of her talents, and the triumphs of gratified ambition. 
A real, yet half-unconscious superiority, moral and mental, in 
which there mingled no alloy of bitterness or assumption, left her 
judgment free, — left her awake and alive to every circumstance 
in her artist-destiny which could strike a mind endowed with 
powers of reflection and comparison, as well as with true feelings 
and quick perceptions. Vile as were some of her forced asso- 
ciates, still there were to be found among them, and not seldom, 
those elements of poetry with which her own poetical nature 
could assimilate, or, at least, could sympathize. In the intervals 
of her public engagements she lived in retirement, devoting her- 
self wholly to the study of the scientific and practical difficulties 
of her profession, until she had achieved a perfect mastery over 
those vocal and mechanical processes through which the ardent 
mind within was to make itself heard and felt. Before she quitted 
Italy, the hereditary histrionic genius of her family, and her rare 
musical talent, both fully developed, and aided by those advan- 
tages which only Italian training can give the vocalist, had com- 
bined to place her, even there, as a lyrical actress beyond all 
competition, beyond all comparison, except with the remembered 
glories of Pasta and Malibran. In England she was viewed in 
another light, and had to go through a different ordeal. 

To say that the women of the Kemble family owed their pre- 



ADELAIDE KEMBLE. 53 

eminence in their profession solely to professional talent, appears 
to me a great mistake. To say that they owed the interest and 
dignity with which they were invested in public, and the position 
they held in private society, merely to their unsullied reputation 
in domestic life, is not only a mistake, — it is a positive insult to 
them, not less than to the many amiable and excellent women 
who have adorned the profession by virtues as well as by talents. 
No ; it has been through every branch of this remarkable family 
the element of the ideal in aspiration and intellect — something 
more generous and elevated in their ambition — which has thus dis- 
tinguished them ; the prevalence of the poetical in the whole tone 
of the mind, interfused through all their artistic conceptions on the 
stage ; and in private life a self-respect which ennobled at once 
themselves and their profession. Such women had a right to hold 
themselves above those of the metier — and they did so. 

The world has been accused of regarding the profession of the 
stage with unjustifiable contempt ; — but, without referring here 
to insolent prejudices which I have heard avowed, even there 
where they were most ungraceful and most ridiculous ; — it seems 
to me, that the artists, taken as a class, must blame themselves for 
the low place they hold in the public estimation. I have known 
those of the profession who, in the midst of infinite personal as- 
sumption, and a dependence on applause, almost mean in its 
excess, have affected to hold in absolute contempt the profession 
by which they lived, — to speak of it merely as a forced means 
of gaining a livelihood, — and to talk as if it were beneath 
them. Now this is pitiable, and the effect of it debasing. I have 
heard such professional people murmur bitterly against the pride 
of the Kembles and the Macreadys. They might reflect, that 
the pride from which their individual amour propre may suffer 
more or less, has raised their whole profession in the public esti- 
mation, — would raise it higher, if elevated principle and self- 



54 ADELAIDE KEMBLE. 

respect were a little more the rule, — not, as I am afraid it is, the 
exception. 

We draw, or ought to draw, a wide distinction between what 
the French call une artiste, and what we and the Germans de- 
signate as an artist in the truer and higher, as well as the more 
general, sense of the word. Une artiste, in the French sense, 
may designate any woman who gains a livelihood by " public 
means," — who sings, dances, acts : who considers her talent 
merely as a commodity, to be exchanged against so much gold 
and silver. Her beauty, her grace, her art, her genius itself, are 
means only to an end, and that end the most vulgar, and alto- 
gether unsanctified — the acquisition of money for merely selfish 
purposes. Even if she lead what is usually termed and con- 
sidered a respectable life, she is not preserved by any innate sense 
of her own dignity, or the dignity of her objects, from the one- 
sided influences of an engrossing profession and the faults inci- 
dental to, almost inseparable from it ; of which the insatiate 
avidity for gain, and for applause as a means of gain, is not the 
worst. We ask nothing of such a woman but that she should do 
her work well, and give us the worth of our money. We con- 
sider the product merely, and much in the light she considers it 
herself: we pay her demand in solid gold or empty bravoes ; — in 
the double sense, the laborer is worthy of her hire. 

An artist, properly so called, is a woman who is not ashamed 
to gain a livelihood by the public exercise of her talent, — rather 
feels a just pride in possessing and asserting the means of inde- 
pendence, — but who does not consider her talent merely as so 
much merchandise to be carried to the best market, but as a gift 
from on High, for the use or abuse of which she will be held 
responsible before the God who bestowed it. Being an artist, she 
takes her place as such in society, — stands on her own ground, 
content to be known and honored for what she is ; and conscious 



ADELAIDE KEMBLE. 55 



that, to her position as a gifted artist, there belongs a dignity equal 
to, though it be different from, rank or birth. Not shunning the 
circles of refined and aristocratic life, nor those of middle life, nor 
of any life ;— since life, in all its forms, is within the reach of her 
sympathies, and it is one of the privileges of her artist-posi- 
tion to belong to none— and to be the delight of all : she wears 
the conventional trammels of society just as she wears her costume 
de theatre : it is a dress in which she is to play a part. The 
beautiful, the noble, the heroic, the affecting sentiments she is to 
utter before the public, are not turned into a vile parody by her 
private deportment and personal qualities— rather borrow from 
both an incalculable moral effect ; while in her womanly charac- 
ter, the perpetual association of her form, her features, her voice, 
with the loveliest and loftiest creations of human genius, enshrines 
her in the ideal,^ and plays like a glory round her head. Mean- 
time, an artist among artists, identifying herself with their inter- 
ests,— sympathizing, helpful,— she keeps far aloof from their 
degrading competitions and sensual habits ; and doomed to go in 
company with all that is most painful, most abhorrent to her feel- 
ings,—" turns that necessity to glorious gain."* She moves 
through the vulgar and prosaic accompaniments of her behind-the- 
scenes existence, without allowing it to trench upon the poetry of 
her conceptions ; and throws herself upon the sympathy of an 
excited and admiring public without being the slave of its ca- 
prices. She has a feeling that on the distinguished women of her 
own class is laid the deep responsibility of elevating or degrading 
the whole profession ;— of rendering more accessible to the gifted 
and high-minded a really elegant and exalted vocation, or leaving 
it yet more and more a stumbling-block in the way of the con- 
scientious and the pure-hearted. f 

* " And doomed to go in company with pain, 
And fear, and bloodshed,— miserable train,— 
Turns that necessity to glorious gain !"— Wordsworth 
t When writing this character of a female artist, I had Mrs. Henry Sid- 



56 ADELAIDE KEMBLE. 



To the former class belong the greater number of those women, 
to whom we owe much that sweetens and embellishes life ; — much 
of pleasurable sensation ; of the latter class are the few excep- 
tions, but such have been, and are among us. 

When Adelaide Kemble prepared to make her debut on the 
English stage, it was with the acknowledged determination to 
attain, by every possible exertion, distinction and independence : 
but it was also with some larger and less selfish views than are 
usually entertained by a young aspirant for public applause : — 
views which she frequently and earnestly discussed with such of 
her friends as could sympathize with them. She wished to na- 
turalize the Italian lyrical drama, with all its beautiful capabili- 
ties, on the English stage ; to cultivate a taste for a higher and 
better school of dramatic music. She said, after her first great 
success, — " Whatever may be the issue of this, — whether I 
event»ally stand or fall, — whether I keep the high place I have 
won, or lose it, — I shall at least have opened a path for those who 
come after me ; — a path, in which great things may be done, both 
for themselves and for the cause of dramatic music in England.'' 
And her intense perception of the grand and the beautiful in her 
own art, — and her rare power of realizing both, — rendered such 
enthusiasm, on her part, noble and worthy of all praise, which 
had sounded like presumption in any other. Such feelings, such 

dons in my mind, and in my heart. It is no ideal portrait, for such she 
was ; — and had I not known that most excellent and admirable woman, I 
should not probably have conceived or written it. One more eminently 
the gentlewoman in the highest, truest sense of the word, I have never met 
with. She left the stage after thirty-two years of professional life, " pure in 
the inmost foldings of her heart ;" — preserving to the latest hour of her 
existence her faith in goodness, her fervent, yet serene piety, and a power 
of elevating the minds of all who approached her, through the simple mo- 
ral dignity of her own nature, which I have never seen equalled. She 
died in October, 1844. 



ADELAIDE KEMBLE. 57 

views, became her well : there might have been moments of im- 
patience, of despondency, when they were not consciously upper- 
most in her mind, — when they were even put aside as visionary, 
— but they were always there ; — and I have not the slightest doubt 
that, by giving a loftier grace to her step, and to the expression 
of her fine face a more serious dignity, they enhanced her moral 
power over her auditors, and imparted, unconsciously, a pro- 
founder significance to the grand style of her acting. 

Her first appearance on a London stage was attended by cir- 
cumstances, which lent it an extraordinary interest in the eyes 
of the public, and gave it some peculiar advantages and disadvan- 
tages as regarded herself. As the youngest daughter of that 
" Olympian dynasty," which had held and transmitted, through 
several generations, the sceptre of supremacy in her art, and 
which the whole English nation regarded with a just pride and 
reverence, she seemed to have a prescriptive right, not merely to 
the indulgence, but to the homage and affections of her audience. 
On the other hand, if the high name she bore was as a diadem 
round her brow, it was also a pledge of powers and talents not 
easily redeemed. It raised expectations not easily satisfied. 
Where there was genius, it was a grace the more ; — " where 
virtue was, it was more virtuous :" it could impart an added 
splendor to the triumph of excellence ; but on mediocrity and 
defeat it had stuck a fatal and lasting stigma. To any other in 
the same position, failure would have been a misfortune : to her 
it must have been disgrace. These were the advantages and 
disadvantages, which, in the very outset, pressed upon her mind. 
How strongly, how acutely they were felt, — with what a mingled 
throb of pride and apprehension she prepared to meet the ordeal, 
— those can tell who were near her in that hour of trial — and of 
triumph. 

Then the Opera selected for her first appearance, the " Norma" 
4* 



58 ALELAIDE KEMBLE. 

of Bellini, — in some respects an excellent choice, — had also its 
difficulties and disadvantages. She had sung in it at Venice ; it 
was associated with her first success ; it was well calculated for 
her person and her features, which had the historical and poetical 
cast of the Kemble family ; modified, however, by strong likeness 
to her mother. The music suited the natural and acquired quali- 
ties of her voice ; and the character and situations were calcu- 
lated to exhibit to advantage her style of acting — majestic, earnest, 
passionate. On the other hand, both the music and the character 
were so familiar, that the effect of novelty in either was wanting. 
Pasta, the original Norma, had left behind her undying recollec- 
tions ; and Grisi, the successor of Pasta on the stage of the Italian 
Opera, was then triumphant in her beauty, and at the height of 
her matured powers as singer and actress. The translation, 
though well executed on the whole, offered great difficulties to 
one who had been accustomed to sing the music to the words for 
which it was composed, and who was now obliged to adapt the 
organs of her voice to a different enunciation of syllables and 
sounds. The cultivated taste, the exquisitely nice ear, revolted 
against the blending of awkwardly inverted words with notes for 
which they had no affinity. Milton speaks of " Music married to 
immortal verse;" this, to continue the metaphor, was a forced 
and unequal marriage, and threatened discord. The difficulty 
was, however, met and overcome, as it had been vanquished be- 
fore by Malibran and others ; but never so completely, so suc- 
cessfully, as by Adelaide Kemble. There were passages in the 
recitative in which her distinct and perfect articulation was felt 
through the music, and told most beautifully. 

But to return to her first appearance, and the first impression 
it produced. Her entrance on the stage was a moment of intense 
interest. The audience gave her that enthusiastic welcome 
which, under the circumstances, was not merely a thing of course, 
but expressive of the cordial good-will and respect due to a Kem- 



ADELAIDE KEMBLE. 59 



ble. Then for a time all expression of feeling was hushed by- 
expectation, perhaps by anxious doubt ; the first effect was pro- 
duced by the sustained note at the conclusion of the first recitative, 
on the word sever (in Italian, " il sacro vischio mieto") : the won- 
dering, delighted, breathless suspense in which it held her audi- 
tors, was succeeded by a short pause of absolute astonishment, 
and then by a general and deafening shout of applause. Still the 
more refined and enlightened portion of her audience withheld 
their judgment ; they felt that this wonderful passage was, after 
all, a mere tour de force. They waited for higher proofs of 
higher powers. The execution of her first cavatina, the " Casta 
Diva" particularly of the cabaletta " O hello a me ritorni /" 
showed to advantage the capabilities of her voice. As the opera 
proceeded, more delicate touches of passion and feeling, especially 
in the first duet with Adalgisa, the fine opening of the trio, " O 
di qual sei tu vittima ;" and the last scene of the first act, 
" Vanne, si I mi lascia, indegno /" displayed her power of tragic 
declamation, combined with musical science. Her impassioned 
and pathetic acting all through the last scenes showed how com- 
pletely she had entered into her part as a whole ; and the curtain 
fell amid the most enthusiastic demonstrations of applause and 
delight. 

Speaking from recollection, I should say that the finest, the 
most impressive passage in the whole opera, both in vocal and in 
tragic power, was the deep, calm solemnity with which she 
commenced the duett, " In mia man alfin tu sei :" it was terrible : 
— and the power of her voice in the sostenuto passages told won- 
derfully all through this grand scena. I pass over some other 
effects ; but must be allowed one observation, which is irresisti- 
bly suggested by my recollection of her in this particular part. 

Though a consummate musician, Adelaide Kemble was not a 
mere singer. A larger range of reflection, an intellect more 
generally cultivated than is usual in her profession, had opened 



60 ADELAIDE KEMBLE. 

to her more extended views of her own art. She felt all 
the capabilities, all the fascinations, of the lyrical drama ; but 
she had been nourished on Shakspeare, and felt the bounds with- 
in which, as a lyrical actress, her powers were to be circum- 
scribed ; felt, not without some impatience, the line which divides 
the opera-seria from legitimate tragedy ; and was sometimes 
tempted too near the extreme boundary of the former. The sa- 
crifice of all verisimilitude as regards story and character is, in 
opera, a thing of course. Certain unreal and impossible premises 
must be granted, — and are so ; — but sometimes the necessity of 
sacrificing the truth of expression and character to the vocal in- 
tonation was felt as a sore infliction by one who, as I have 
observed, was not a mere singer. This led her, at times, into a 
fault not unworthy of a true daughter of the Kemble line. She 
was apt to sacrifice the music, the vocal intonation, to the more 
emphatic expression of character or passion. This was an abso- 
lute fault ; and for this reason several passages in the Norma, — 
as for example, " See the wretch — the wretch thou hast made me" 
— " That I am a mother I may forget,'''' — and the whole scene 
with Oroveso were imperfectly given to the last ; she forgot the 
vocalist in the tragedian. Had she sung in Italian, this, perhaps, 
would not have occurred ; and, at all events, had she remained 
on the stage, she would have surmounted the temptation thus 
nobly to err. Where the development of a character is restricted 
within the bounds of situation and emotion, and confined to cer- 
tain effects, produced through a conventional medium, difficulties 
are to be vanquished, of which only the most gifted and intellec- 
tual among vocal artists have a complete perception. Adelaide 
Kemble, as she saw beyond the limits within which she was to 
circumscribe her aims, had all the more deeply reflected on 
whatever could possibly be achieved within those limits, — by 
propriety of accentuation and expression, and by adjusting to the 
music every variety of movement and attitude. A lyrical 



ADELAIDE KEMBLE. 61 

actress must not only be graceful ; she must set grace to music, 
and measure it by time. If the figure do not bend ; if the arm 
be not raised or lowered ; the head thrown back ; the step ad- 
vanced, not only at a particular moment, but to a particular note, 
the result is discord to the nice ear and practised eye. But no 
teaching can give this, no study, no thought : only a most har- 
monious mind, to which the limbs and frame move in spontane- 
ous accordance, can convey the impression of perfect ease and 
grace, where every motion and action is calculated. Lyrical 
acting is, in fact, a species of dance. Seldom is the musical 
organization so perfect as to combine in exquisite proportion the 
power of musical utterance with the sense of grace, as regards 
form and movement. Hence so few singers, particularly Eng- 
lish and French singers, have been good performers. 

Adelaide Kemble excelled in harmonious propriety of action 
and expression, and with her it was partly the result of sponta- 
neous impulse, partly of reflection. One instance among many 
reminded me of her aunt Siddons. It was recorded of that great 
actress, that she had, at different periods, adopted successively 
three different ways of giving one phrase in Lady Macbeth, — 

" If we fail — we fail." 

At first with a quick contemptuous interrogation, — " We fail V 
as if indignant at the implied doubt. Afterwards with the note 
of admiration, and an accent of astonishment, laying the empha- 
sis on the word we, — " we fail !" Lastly, she fixed on what must 
appear to all the true reading, and consistent with the fatalism 
of the character, — " We fail." — with the simple period, modu- 
lating her voice to a deep, low, resolute tone, as if she had said, 
— " If we fail, why then we fail, and all is over." 

In the same manner Adelaide Kemble varied certain effects, 
after due consideration of the true significance of the character 
as bearing on the situation and the momentary feeling. In the 



62 ADELAIDE KEMBLE. 



" Norma," in that fine scene and duett with Pollio, when she 
sees her faithless lover at her mercy, she had tried three differ- 
ent intonations in giving the phrase, — E tua vita ti perdono : at 
first with a bitter contempt for what she gave ; next with a scorn 
of him to whom she gave it ; lastly with a tremulous relenting in the 
voice, which was inexpressibly touching, and in accordance with 
the feeling suggested by the words which follow, — E non piu 
ti rivedrd ! The last was doubtless the true expression. These 
successive alterations were remarked and appreciated by an 
Italian audience. I am not sure that her English audience 
would have proved either so sensitive or so discriminating. 

The people showed themselves, however, not unworthy of the 
bright vision which had risen upon them, nor slow in appre- 
ciating the intelligence, the feeling, and the musical science, 
which surpassed all that had yet been seen on the English stage. 
Those who differed at first with regard to the precise rank she 
was to hold as a singer were at least agreed in this, that no Eng- 
lish vocalist had ever yet approached her as an actress. Every 
night she sang she gained on the affections and the judgment of 
the public ; and those who had long forsaken the theatre as a 
place of amusement became for her sake habitues. 

The crowds which flocked to the representation of the " Norma" 
had not diminished even after forty repetitions, and the excite- 
ment was still at its height when she appeared (January 23, 1842) 
in the " Elena Uberti," an English version of the " Elena da 
Feltre" of Mercadante, in which she had sung with so much 
applause at Padua and at Naples. But of all the operas in which 
she appeared here this was the least popular. The music was 
a pasticcio, with a scena from Pacini (the " II soave e bel con- 
tento"), and a finale from the "Emma de Antiocho." The rest 
of the opera, though extremely well put together — u gut instru- 
mentirt," as the Germans say — had little of either melody or 
originality. The situations, though striking, were commonplace. 



ADELAIDE KEMBLE. 63 



With all these disadvantages, and a confined canvass, there were 
points in which she displayed a power of tragic acting beyond 
anything in the "Norma;" and though the opera failed in effect, 
she herself rose higher than ever in the estimation of the public — 
particularly in the last scene of despair and madness. To go 
mad to music, and to preserve, in the very tempest and whirl- 
wind of passion, the vocal effects and the harmonious grace 
of movement, so that all shall be calculated instinctively (if I may 
so express myself), and keep time with the orchestral accompani- 
ments, is one of the greatest difficulties — and, when vanquished, 
one of the greatest triumphs — of lyrical acting. 

The transition from the grandeur of Norma and the deep 
tragedy of the " Elena Uberti" to the gaiety of the " Figaro," 
was a trial and a proof of the versatility of her talent. Those 
who had allowed and admired her capabilities for tragic acting, 
and her effective execution of modern Italian music, seemed 
uncertain how far she was fitted for the opera buffa, or how far 
she mi^ht be trusted with the classic melodies of Mozart. Such 
doubts were soon dissipated. Of all her triumphs, the part of 
Susanna was, perhaps, the most brilliant. She not only under- 
stood, she revelled in the beauty of the music. She sang it with 
a purity of style which fully evinced her real taste and correct 
judgment ; and at the same time, with an exuberance of delight 
which seemed to overflow throughout the part, and in which her 
audience sympathized cordially. If, in her conception of the 
character, there was a little too much of dignity and refinement 
for the Susanna of Beaumarchais, it was only the more true to 
the musical version of the character, as conceived by Mozart. 
We cannot but feel how much his charming music, so earnest 
and passionate in the midst of its gaiety, had been desecrated by 
the common stage-representation of a mere romping chamber- 
maid. Adelaide Kemble felt, with exquisite taste, how false, with 



64 ADELAIDE KEMBLE. 



all its apparent literalness, would have been such an impersona- 
tion of Mozart's Susanna. There was no want of archness, 
of sprightliness, of buoyant animal spirits ; but all melodized, all 
softened by the truth of the lyrical effect ; thus combining atten- 
tion to the original spirit of the character, and to the spirit infused 
into it by Mozart. That fine cavatina in the last scene, " Deh 
vieni, — nontardar," generally omitted on. the Italian stage, was 
retained ; and she sang it with such admirable taste and pathos, 
and such a finished delicacy of style, that, among musicians, this 
success crowned her as a first-rate vocal artist. But the manner 
in which she gave the famous air, Voi die sapete die cosa e amor, 
was as fine as a piece of vocalism, as it was novel and exquisite 
as an example of her consummate judgment in comic acting. It 
was marked by such a feeling of propriety and expression, regard- 
ing this song as a part of a whole, that it may be mentioned here 
as a lesson in art. At first, when she snatched the page's song 
out of his hand, she began with a sort of ironical air, and a glance 
at him and the countess, as if consciously expressing his senti- 
ments ; but she proceeded as if hurried away by her feeling of 
the sentiment, and continued her song with more and more of 
heartfelt expression, as if forgetting, till she approached the con, 
elusion, that she was personating another. In general, this air, 
which belongs to Cherubino, but is always given to Susanna, is 
sung as a mere piece de pretention, as if to the audience or the 
stage-lamps, without reference to the action or the business of the 
scene — all truth of situation, all vraisemblance forgotten. 

In this opera the recitative was omitted, and the dialogue sub- 
stituted, — not the witty dialogue of Beaumarchais, but a transla- 
tion of the very insipid and pointless dialogue of the Italian 
libretto, and of this only just so much as was necessary to con- 
nect the songs. Still it was delightful to hear, for the first time, 
the speaking tones of a voice which seemed to be made up of 
music. Her perfect and beautiful enunciation was pronounced 



ADELAIDE KEMBLE. 65 



to be " worthy of the school in which it was formed," and the 
easy grace of her movements, and the charming naivete of some 
of her scenes, recalled her mother to the recollection of all who 
had seen that delightful actress in the days of her youth and 
beauty. 

The "Sonnambula," in which she had sung at Naples with 
brilliant success, was her next triumph ; and the part of Amina 
was certainly one of those in which she produced the greatest 
effect on the English stage. In this opera she had to sustain a 
formidable comparison with two of the most accomplished singers 
the world has yet seen — Malibran and Persiani. The " Son- 
nambula" was a part in which Pasta had never produced a pleas- 
ing effect, because she was too great. She threw into the peasant 
girl too much of the tragic heroine — too much weight and gran- 
deur. Malibran had too much passion and vehemence — too much 
of the gipsy. Persiani was a little too ladylike. Adelaide Kem- 
ble had conceived the character differently, and, as I think, more 
truly than any one of these great artists. She delineated the 
simple, affectionate, joyous country girl overtaken by a misery 
against which she has no defence, not even in her innocence. 
She made a gentle, confiding tenderness the predominant senti- 
ment in her impersonation, as it is of the music ; and to this con- 
ception of the character, sustained from first to last with infinite 
delicacy and consistency, she was content to sacrifice some of 
those brilliant and wonderful effects which, as a singer, she might 
have produced had she been so minded. For instance, in singing 
the last bravura, " Ah ! non giunge uman pensiero," she neither 
aimed at the sparkling grace and triumphant rapture with which 
the enchantress Malibran had poured it forth, as from some foun- 
tain of song in the depths of her own soul, looking the while half 
gipsy and half sibyl, nor did she emulate the elegance and ela- 
borate finish which characterized Persiani in the same song ; 
but she gave it more of sentiment than either, and here and there 



66 ADELAIDE KEMBLE. 



with a touch of tremulous feeling, in which the rich tones of plea- 
sure seemed to vibrate to a past but recent sorrow. When asked 
why she had varied from the usual style of execution in this 
particular song, and from the more obvious expression, she replied, 
with quick feeling, " What ! do you think the poor girl has for- 
gotten in a few moments all the agonies she has passed through ?" 
I have said that, of all her parts, this was one of the most suc- 
cessful. It was also the one most severely trying to her strength 
and feelings. She frequently fainted after or during the perform- 
ance ; and, to the last, never sang in it without being exhausted 
by her own emotions. 

On the first of October in this year, after a tour of a few 
months in the provinces, she made her first appearance in the 
" Semiramide." From the representation of the lively Cameriera 
and the gentle heart-stricken Amina ; from the profound soul- 
thrilling music of Mozart and the tender melodies of Bellini, she 
stepped at once into the impersonation of the haughty Assyrian 
Queen, and lent her charming voice to the brilliant spirit-stirring 
airs of Rossini. 

On her first appearance in the "Semiramide," it was my im- 
pression that either she had pitched her conception a tone and a 
half too low, or that she was disabled by her nervous terror and 
want of self-reliance, — by the very sensibility, in short, which 
was the charm of her acting as of her character, — from working 
out her conception in all its strength. She made the woman pre- 
dominate throughout, whereas the Assyrian Queen ought to do 
so ; in the first place, because more true to the traditional charac- 
ter ; secondly, because distinguishing the role from others of the 
same class, as the Norma and the Medea ; lastly because the 
barbaric pomp of the music bears out this reading of the part. 
It is true that we have strains here and there of voluptuous ten- 
derness, but these are lost immediately in the clash of cymbals, 
and the rich, tumultuous, triumphant orchestral effects. It was 



ADELAIDE KEMBLE. 67 



not till after the third or fourth representation, that the character 
assumed that coloring of grandeur and power which it afterwards 
retained ; and from this time she sung it better and better every 
night ; — but it remained a feminine and peculiar conception to 
the end. 

In the "Semiramide" she had to contend with undying recol- 
lections of Pasta. Next to the Medea it had been the grandest 
effort of that unequalled artist. It was perhaps fortunate for 
Adelaide Kemble that she had never witnessed Pasta's perform- 
ance of this character ; that she was left, untrammelled by any 
influences or recollections, to work out her own conception, which 
differed altogether from that which Pasta had originated, and 
which Grisi and others had adopted, with more or less success. 

Pasta had conceived the part in a tone of greatness, in which 
the imperious queen predominated over the woman. In her im- 
personation, Semiramide was a magnificent barbaric heroine, who 
could feel love, hatred, fury, scorn, but hardly fear or remorse, 
still less tenderness. Adelaide, on the contrary, had conceived 
the Semiramide as a voluptuous and despotic queen, in whom, 
amid crimes of the darkest die, the woman still predominated. 
The music of this opera, fascinating as it is, and full of fine dra- 
matic effects, has yet little originality, character, or solidity. It 
is deficient in style, — it is precisely of that kind on which an 
accomplished singer could stamp her own conception. In this 
respect how different from the music of Mozart ! — so full of dra- 
matic individuality, that he obliges the singer to adopt his concep- 
tion of a character, or falsify it altogether, and produce a palpa- 
ble discord. In singing Mozart, her instinctively fine taste 
had impelled her to defer to the feeling of the composer, even 
where that diverged from the more obvious truth of the situation ; 
for instance, she made Susanna poetical, because all the music 
she sings is passionate and poetical ; but in singing the Semira- 



63 ADELAIDE KEMBLE. 



mide she felt quite at liberty to interpret the music as she chose. 
It was altogether a beautiful and consistent delineation in the 
singing and in the acting. For example, in the scene with the 
spectre, in giving the passage — 

" Atroce palpit.a 
M'opprima Panima," 

she displayed more of terror ; Pasta, in the same scene, less fear, 
and more horror, not unmingled with a sort of defiance. 
Throughout this scene Adelaide's voice trembled — she herself 
trembled. Pasta did not tremble, but sank her voice to a fearful 
hollow tone, low as the deepest whisper, yet distinctly audible. 
It was quite consistent with Adelaide's conception, that, in the 
extremity of sudden terror, she should cling for support to the 
arm of Assur, and the next moment shrink from him in disgust, 
— and it was finely imagined. In Pasta's representation such an 
action had been wholly inconsistent and unnatural. This dis- 
tinction was still more marked in the famous duet with Assur, in 
the second Act. And I do not hesitate to say, that her conception 
here was superior to that of Pasta, — more varied, more delicately 
felt, both in the action and the musical expression. The predo- 
minant sentiment, as Pasta sang and acted this scene, was not so 
much remorse for her crime as indignant scorn of her accomplice. 
This was the coloring throughout. Adelaide displayed all the 
successive passions and shades of passion which, under such cir- 
cumstances, would overwhelm the soul of the insulted queen, 
and the guilty trembling woman. At one moment she grasped 
her poignard as though she would have struck it to the traitor's 
heart : the next she cowered, she writhed under his threats and 
reproaches, her bowed head and clasped hands seeming to implore 
his forbearance ; and none can easily forget the look of horror 
with which she glanced round, as she sang the words 



ADELAIDE KEMBLE. 69 

" L'ombra, terribile 
Del tuo consorte 
Che minaccioso 
Infra le tenebre, &c 

as if the very air was filled with avenging furies. The exult- 
ing stretto — 

" Regina e Guerriera 
Punirti sapro " 

was a magnificent display of passion, power, fine acting, and 
vocal science. I have known the audience, in the midst of this 
passage, as if absolutely carried away as she ran up the notes to 
the top of her voice and swept across the stage, break into an in- 
voluntary shout of admiration, as instantly repressed, and again 
"they held their breath for a time !" Most true to her concep- 
tion of the part, and inexpressibly touching and beautiful in itself, 
was the smile gleaming through tears, and the pathetic, tremulous 
intonation with which, in the famous duet, " Giorno d'orrdre !" 
she gave the words, " E di contento !" Nothing, throughout her 
whole career, gave me a more vivid impression of her capabili- 
ties as a first-rate intellectual artist, than did this profound and 
exquisite touch of feeling, whether the result of impulse, or of 
reflection, or both. 

On the 5th of November, in this year, she gave us the " Matri- 
monio Segreto." As in the " Figaro," the recitative was omitted, 
and there was only as much dialogue retained as was absolutely 
necessary to connect the songs by the thread of an intelligible 
story. The English version was, however, executed with 
unusual spirit and felicity. And never, perhaps, were the 
enchanting melodies of Cimarosa given in a more perfect style, 
nor with a finer feeling of their tender beauty and arch signifi- 
cance. Her execution of the part of Carolina was an example of 



70 ADELAIDE KEMBLE. 

the purely simple and classical Buffa singing, with a thorough 
appreciation of its true character • and her acting throughout was 
as effectively charming and piquante. This Opera and the 
" Figaro'' were those in which she sang with most pleasure to her- 
self and least physical exertion. The conclusion of the perform- 
ance always found her untired in voice and spirits, — often in a 
state of buoyant excitement ; and I do not recollect that she ever 
came off the stage without some strong expression of rapturous 
delight in the beauty of the music. 

Her brief career of successive triumphs was now drawing to a 
close. She had, in one short year, given evidence of the wide 
range of her powers — a range as wide as ever was taken by any 
lyrical actress. She had shown herself on the stage, or in the 
concert-room, perfectly at home in every school, — every style of 
music. She had sung Mercadante, Donizetti, Bellini ; she had 
sung Mozart, Cimarosa, Weber. In the " Norma," and the 
" Semiramide," and the " Sonnambula," she had emulated Pasta 
and Malibran. In the famous scena of the "Dei* Frieschutz," 
she had competed with Schroder Devrient. She had sung the 
"Erl-Konig" and the " Ave- Maria " of Schubert, and made 
every pulse throb or tremble to the music ; and she had drawn 
tears in " Auld Robin Gray."* Those who had watched her 

* Among the songs she sang most beautifully were Mendelsohn's 
" Fruhlings-lied /" Schubert's " Hark, hark the lark ;" and Dessauer's 
Ouvrez, oitvrez." The same composer set for her Alfred Tennyson's fine 
ballad, " We were two Daughters of one Race," which she sang divinely ; 
it was like a scene out of a tragic drama;, and the style in which she sang 
it was suitable to the words and to the music : but I could not say the same 
of " Auld Robin Gray," which she made too dramatic. It ought to be 
sung as the " spinners and the knitters in the sun" would sing it, not like 
an air out of the " Sonnambula :" — this, at least, was my own feeling, but 
others felt differently. When she sang " Auld Robin Gray " for the first 
time in public, the venerable Bishop of Kildare, the brother of Lady Anne 



ADELAIDE KEMBLE. 71 



progress as a dramatic singer felt that, in her departure, the stage 
had sustained a loss never to be replaced ; and, as yet, it has so 
proved. Some, who knew what her own aspirations had been, 
ardently wished that, before her retirement, she had appeared in 
three characters especially suited to her person, her mind, and 
her vocal powers ;— the Iphigenia, the Medea, and the Donna 
Anna. 

For the first, she was fitted by her deep appreciation of all that 
constitutes ideal grandeur of style in impersonation as in song. 
She would have entered into the Iphigenia as conceived by Euri- 
pides and by Goethe, and steeped its statue-like beauty in the 
music of Gliick. In the Medea she would have entered the lists 
with Pasta, and would have given us, probably, a new version of 
that grand impersonation ; for Adelaide Kemble could never 
(overflowing as she was with original power) have been an imita- 
tor of any one ; and her Medea would certainly, like her Semira- 
mide, have derived a coloring from her own individual tempera- 
ment and genius. The Donna Anna of Mozart she had studied, 
and had resolved on adopting that view of the character which is 
suggested in Hoffmann's poetical critique of the " Don Juan." 
In her impersonation, Donna Anna would not have been merely 
a lady walking about the stage with a dignified air, lamenting 
and singing in deep mourning. She had conceived the character 
not merely as a part to sing, but as a grand tragic role ; as it is 
developed in the passionate and luxuriant music of Mozart, not 
merely as it is set forth in the words of the libretto. She intended 

Lindsay, was present : as soon as the performance was over, he came up to 
thank and compliment the singer, but was so much moved as to be scarcely 
able to speak. In referring afterwards to this incident, her own eyes 
sparkled and filled with tears, showing how strongly she felt the moral 
power of her art. It should seem, however, that the true ballad style is 
incompatible with the dramatic style, for notwithstanding the improvement 
in general power, she never sang ballads so well after her return from Italy 
as before she went there : the manner was too intense for the subject. 



72 ADELAIDE KEMBLE. 



to give it a depth of coloring such as no singer had ever imparted, 
or thought of imparting to it before. This, and far more, we 
might have looked for from her. But her retirement took place 
under circumstances which those who most admired her could 
least regret ; and her last appearance, like her first, was accom- 
panied by incidental associations which rendered it as peculiar 
and touching as it was memorable. Her career had been so 
short ! — so crowded by triumphs, which had left the public almost 
breathless ! Musical critics had decided, " that tried even by the 
standard of Pasta and Malibran, she maintained, through original 
power and intellect, her own high place : — measured against all 
English competitors and predecessors, she stood alone, and 
supreme." Yet they had scarcely come to this decision, when 
she was snatched from their sight, like Iphigenia from the eager 
gaze of the multitude, to sacrifice, or be sacrifice, at a holier 
shrine. She disappeared so suddenly and at such a height of 
popularity, it was as if she had been spirited away by some 
enchanter. 

She left the stage before her profession had been vulgarized to 
her by habit, — before the excitement of applause had become to 
her like an intoxicating drug. Her art was not yet to her a 
metier, — it had still poetry left for her. Her voice still trembled, 
her hand still turned ice-cold after a scene of passion or emotion. 
She was in the bloom of health, youth, and strength ; — she had 
intellect, energy, physical power ; — she was gaining, every hour, 
in finish and certainty of execution, in grace and smoothness of 
action ; — and she retired, with her wreath of glory yet fresh 
and budding round her brow, and while the sympathy between 
her and her audience had all the novelty and enthusiasm of a 
first love. She chose, for her last appearance in public, the Nor- 
ma. In this character she had appeared on her debut at Venice, 
in 1838, when she passed the Rubicon which separates a private 



ADELAIDE KEMBLE. 73 



from a public existence. In this character she had produced her 
first great effect in England. She wished to take leave of her au- 
dience under the same semblance in which she had captivated and 
conquered them. She had not faltered in her resolution, which 
had become a duty : she could not for a moment regret the change 
from a brilliant, but troubled existence, to an honored and tran- 
quil home, — but she had sufficient sensibility to feel that this was 
not merely a parting, but a sacrifice ; that, in taking leave of the 
stage, — that arena of glory for all her family, — she was renouncing 
her vocation, and her birthright. She sat for some time weeping 
in her dressing-room, trying in vain to regain composure. Be- 
hind the scenes — where all was usually noise and gossip — reigned 
a sort of funereal silence. From her companions, who were ac- 
customed to sing with her, and to derive inspiration from her 
genius, down to the lowest officials of the theatre, — all of whom 
she had won by multiplied kind offices, and by her frank and 
gentle bearing, — there was not one who did not look serious, if not 
sad : some were even in tears. Before the curtain there was an 
immense house, — hushed, yet, now and then, breaking into sounds 
of impatience, — for there was some unusual delay. The over- 
ture and first scenes were scarcely listened to ; and, when she 
appeared, — the whole audience rising simultaneously, greeted her 
with such an acclaim as made the very walls shake. Over- 
powered, so as to lose all self-possession, she covered her face 
with her hands — and still keeping her majestic attitude by the 
Druid altar — stood still, — the tears streaming, — her whole frame 
trembling : at last, making a motion as if to implore forbearance, 
the shouts of applause subsided, and she made a desperate effort 
to commence. In vain ! — the sounds were choked — suffocated. 
After a struggle, almost painful to witness, she clasped her hands 
together ; and, leaning her face on the altar, fairly gave way to 
uncontrollable emotion. There was a short pause of deep silence, 



74 ADELAIDE KEMBLE. 



respect and sympathy — then the feelings of the excited audience 
burst forth again in prolonged acclamations. 

At length she gained sufficient self-possession to begin. Her 
voice was at first feeble, husky, scarce audible ; but gathering 
courage as she proceeded, she gave the " Casta Diva" with some- 
thing of her usual spirit and brilliance, — was encored, — succeeded 
better, — and went through the rest of the part with the more 
energy, perhaps, from the state of excitement and emotion into 
which she had been thrown ; and, certainly, she never acted more 
magnificently. She made no attempt at a farewell address ; but, 
picking up a wreath of laurel, and a bouquet from among those 
flung at her feet, she pressed them to her lips, and, with an ex- 
pressive look and gesture, and a gentle inclination of the head, 
disappeared. On recovering herself, in her dressing-room, she 
looked at the laurel-wreath and flowers, still clasped in her hand, 
and exclaimed, with a gush of mournful feeling : "What! — is it 
all over ? — And is this all that remains V 



No — NOT ALL 



III. 

THE XANTHIAN MARBLES, 

AND MEMOIRS CONNECTED WITH THEM. 



THE XANTHIAN MARBLES. 77 



THE XANTHIAN MARBLES: 

(May, 1844.) 

The fragments of antique art brought hither from the Syrian 
coast since the first expedition of Sir Charles Fellows, in 1842, 
have now been long enough in the British Museum to be familiar 
to the public — that is, familiar as objects of sight, of attention, 
of speculation ; but still, to the contemplative and poetical visitor, 
invested with all that vague, solemn interest, that strange charm 
which indefinite age and ungratified curiosity sheds over the 
unknown, — 

" For time consecrates ; 

And what is grey with age becomes religion." 

Every day people may be seen gazing up in wonder at that mys- 
terious Harpy Tomb which, in spite of the disquisitions and 
interpretations of the learned, remains still an enigma and a stum- 
bling-block. And hither, from all the learned Societies at home 
or abroad, arrive antiquarians, historians, artists, all eager to in- 
vestigate, to examine, to compare ; — some anxious to prop up old 
theories ; — others full of some new hypothesis which is to invali- 
date old systems ; — some poring over " arrow-headed" inscrip- 
tions ; — some examining the vestiges of color which once gave 
added relief and more vivid beauty to these memorials of a style 
of art which could only have existed in the softest and the sunni- 
est of climates. Without being either professed historian, or pro- 
fessed antiquarian, or professed anything, one must be dull indeed; 



78 THE XANTHIAN MARBLES. 

and forgetful of the earliest associations, the brightest images, which 
poetry and history have enshrined in the young fancy, could we 
walk among these relics without a thrill of awe, — so do they strike, 
and almost bewilder the imagination ! It is understood that no fur- 
ther expedition to this part of Asia is contemplated, either by our 
Government, or by the enterprising and public-spirited traveller to 
whom we owe these important acquisitions ; — all has been removed 
which has been considered either as removable or worth remov- 
ing, — and the Xanthian Collection may now be considered as 
complete. Since the marbles of the Parthenon arrived in this 
country, and were placed in the Museum, we have made no ac- 
quisitions even approaching these Lycian monuments in value ; 
and though they may not vie with the faultless productions of the 
golden age of Grecian sculpture in intrinsic beauty as works of 
art, yet have they a kind of interest altogether distinct and pe- 
culiar, and not less in degree, than that with which vainly emu- 
lative and admiring ages have invested those sublime fragments, 
the awful Fates and animated Metopes of the Parthenon. 

All the associations, whether of persons, places, or events, con- 
nected with the Parthenon marbles, stand out in our fancy clear 
and defined ; their origin, date, history, vicissitudes, are perfectly 
known. The age which produced them was an age of light, com- 
pared with that to which we must refer the oldest of the Xanthian 
remains. Then, to borrow Coleridge's beautiful expression, 
" Greece was the thinking head and beating heart of the uni- 
verse." When we think of the Parthenon, we think of Phidias, — 
when we think of Phidias, we think of Polygnotus, and of Sopho- 
cles, and Euripides, Herodotus, Pericles, — perhaps also of Aspa- 
sia. Heroes, poets, painters, sculptors, move before us ; not dim, 
nor spectral, but clear and bright and defined, like a procession 
of figures in a marble bas-relief. We are as familiar with the 
former locality of these works as if we had dwelt beside them ; 



THE XANTHIAN MARBLES. 79 



the Acropolis of Athens is a picture in the mind's eye, fixed there 
since infancy : but the land from which these Xanthian marbles 
come to us is comparatively an unknown land— a far-off, alien 
shore— a land of poetic dreams. Its princes are shadowy demi- 
gods ; its people—we know not even by what name to call them ; 
their history is poetry— their poetry history ; their annals must be 
sought in Homer and Herodotus ; and nothing is more strange and 
interesting in these fragments than their connection with the tales 
and traditions of the old fathers of poetry and history,— more 
nearly allied in truth than the insolence of modern scepticism has 
deemed them allied in fiction. Here art, and poetry, and history, 
mutually illustrate each other: obscure words are interpreted 
through defined forms; mysterious shapes become intelligible 
memorials, illuminated by the old Greek song ; events and per- 
sonages, which had become dim, hypothetical existences, here 
start into forms instinct with significance and life. 

What a region was all that southern shore of Asia Minor ! 
How the imagination kindles with enthusiasm and dilates with 
wonder when we think of it ! A land swarming with populous 
cities, so that in a single day's journey one may count the ruined 
sites of twenty ;— a land of wondrous beauty and fertility, of 
countless rivers flowing to the sea through valleys studded with 
temple-like trophies in honor of forgotten deeds, and tombs of the 
nameless dead rising like towers against the sky ! Everywhere 
the traces of a people equally remarkable for their acquaintance 
with all the softer elegances of life, and their unconquerable spirit 
of independence ; with whom, as with all the Hellenic tribes, 
however and wherever dispersed, the love of freedom and the 
love of beauty went ever hand in hand. Here was the scene, if 
not the birth-place, of those wild, but really profound myths, in 
which the seers of old shadowed forth the influences and aspects 
of nature, and 'the instincts of sentient life, until the stars and 



80 THE XANTHIAN MARBLES. 



seasons of the firmament and the passions and powers of humanity 
became, in the creative fancy of the poets, fair existences, and, 
through the operation of divine art, fixed and lovely shapes. 
Here reigned Bellerophon, who slew the Chimsera, and Sarpedon, 
who was borne by Sleep and Death from the battle-plain of Troy 
to his tomb on the banks of the Xanthus. Hither Latona, flying 
from Delos, brought her heavenly offspring to bathe them in the 
sacred river. Hither came the Amazons — sweeping over the 
land and leaving behind them wonderful legends of feminine 
prowess, and famous colonies and cities, — then retiring again, 
like a sea wave, to their empire by the Euxine shores. Here 
successive nations struggled for the possession of the loveliest and 
fruitfulest land under the sun, and left, for the astonishment and 
admiration of future ages, vestiges of their power, their arts, their 
worship ; — but, like their opposite neighbors the Egyptians, and 
unlike their European progenitors the Greeks, the grandest, most 
beautiful, most enduring memorials they have left behind them, 
are not the dwellings appointed for their gods, but the dwellings 
appointed for their dead. 

And now that these most extraordinary relics lie around us, 
unarranged as yet — as yet but half explained, half understood, 
but gathered together within the walls which are to contain them, 
as long as England remains a nation — it seems a fitting time to 
take a rapid view of the entire collection ; leaving to deep read 
scholars and antiquaries the discussion of those conflicting theo- 
ries and interpretations of which they are already the subject, in 
France and Germany, as well as in England, but borrowing, 
without scruple, from all available authorities, whether English 
or foreign, as we go along. 

The Xanthian marbles, as they are properly denominated (for 
all are from the city of Xanthus, though illustrated by Drawings 
and Casts from the neighboring cities of Tlos, Telmessus, Pinara, 



THE XANTHIAN MARBLES. 81 



Myra, Cadyanda), may be considered under four classes : 1. The 
earliest works, Greco-Lycian, we may term them for the present, 
for want of a better designation ; 2. The Greco-Persian, as com- 
bining Grecian workmanship with Persian story ; 3. the Greco- 
Roman ; 4. the Byzantine and early Christian relics : and to these 
may be added a fifth division, consisting of a series of Drawings 
and Plans prepared under the direction of Sir Charles Fellows, 
representing the localities whence the Marbles have been brought, 
and their appearance on the original sites; — the characteristic 
scenery; views of the objects left behind, which it has not been 
found possible or expedient to remove ; copies of inscriptions, and 
a collection of coins of the confederated cities of Lycia ; forming 
altogether a most beautiful and complete series of illustrations, 
which are to be placed in the British Museum ; and it is to be 
hoped, so placed as to be rendered generally and easily accessible. 

1. The most important of the relics which may be included in 
the first class, — the earliest in point of date and the most valuable 
in the eyes of the antiquary, — are four stupendous tombs or 
monuments. Two of the Stele or pillar form (a high square 
column with a hollow chamber or sarcophagus at top, and a flat 
projecting cover), which, from the most conspicuous of their 
sculptured ornaments, have been styled the Lion Tomb, and the 
Harpy Tomb ; and two of that form, which Sir Charles Fellows 
has denominated gothic-shaped, consisting of a lofty square pedes- 
tal of three stories ; the lowest hollow, the next solid, and the third 
hollow, with a vaulted top or cover, surmounted by an upright 
ridge, forming at each end a sort of arch, like the pointed Gothic 
in shape. The cover and sides of these peculiar shaped tombs 
are sometimes plain, sometimes covered with inscriptions or 
sculpture. Those brought away are the only highly ornamented 
specimens which have been found, and from the sculptured sub- 



82 THE XANTHIAN MARBLES. 

jects, have been denominated, by Sir Charles Fellows, the 
Chimcera Tomb and the Winged- Chariot Tomb.* 

The most ancient of the stele or square pillar-shaped tombs — 
perhaps the oldest of all the sculptured specimens brought over — 
is the Lion Tomb, placed in the Museum in the summer of 1844 ; 
and which is singularly interesting and remarkable, as linking 
these Xanthian remains with known examples of Babylonian and 
Persepolitan art, thus affording indirect evidence of the Oriental 
relations of the early people of this country. The two lions 
crouching down, and with an extraordinary half-human expres- 
sion, are quite Persepolitan ; and the figures at the end exhibit 
the group of the man, with a sort of Egyptian peruke, wrestling 
with and slaying the upright Lion, a mythological or astronomi- 
cal emblem continually repeated in the Persian and Babylonian 
relics. These extraordinary slabs of marble, which formed the 
chamber at the top of the stele, have been engraved in Sir Charles 
Fellows's " Lycia," p. 176. 

The frieze which surrounds the top of the Harpy Tomb was 
one of the first brought here, and it has been placed in the Mu- 
seum since April, 1842. It is considered by classical scholars as 
the earliest extant specimen of the heroic age of Greece, and, 
except the Lions over the gates of Mycenae, the only one.f There 
is a small wooden model of the whole Tomb, as it stood on the 
original site, placed near it, so that the form, as well as the ex- 
ternal ornaments of this extraordinary relic, have become familiar 

* I am informed that Sir Charles Fellows has given up the title of the 
" Winged Chariot Tomb," from an impression that the supposed wing is, 
in fact, another object. In Mr. Lloyd's Essay " On the Nereid Monument" 
it is referred to as the Tomb of the Satrap. 

f See a very clever and elegantly-written pamphlet, entitled " Some 
Remarks on Art, with Reference to the Studies of the University," pub- 
lished at Oxford in 1846. 



THE XANTHIAN MARBLES. 83 

to the most uninformed of the visitors to the Museum ; it stood, 
as Sir Charles Fellows has described it, on the brow of the Acro- 
polis of Xanthus, so close upon the theatre built subsequently, 
that it seems to have interfered with the course of the seats, — to 
have been an ever-present object to actors and audience ; — and 
what an awfully grand object standing up amid their scenic and 
festive exhibitions ! It consisted of a square shaft in one huge 
block, about seventeen feet in height, weighing about eighty tons ; 
upon the top of this shaft was a hollow chamber for the dead, 
surrounded by the bas-reliefs in white marble, three feet six 
inches high. Upon these rested the square projecting cover or 
capstone, weighing from fifteen to twenty tons. The bas-reliefs 
of this monument are in a style of art of which but one other 
example exists in Europe, a celebrated marble now in the Villa 
Albani, and quoted by Winkelman as the most ancient specimen 
of Greek sculpture known in the world. Sir Charles Fellows 
procured a cast from this marble when he was at Rome last spring, 
and this being now placed near the Xanthian bas-relief, the im- 
mediate comparison leaves no doubt of the identity of age and 
style. 

At each end of the north and south sides of this frieze is a harpy, 
flying outwards, and holding in her talons a draped female figure ; 
below one harpy is seen a fifth female, kneeling, and covering 
her face with her hands. That these figures represent a form of 
the old Homeric legend of the daughters of King Pandarus, which 
interpretation was first suggested by Mr. Benjamin Gibson, at 
Rome, seems now generally admitted. Pandarus of Crete steals 
the living golden dog, fabricated by Vulcan, from the temple of 
Jupiter. The father of the gods avenges this theft by the destruc- 
tion of Pandarus, whose orphan daughters are brought up by the 
goddesses. Venus nourishes them with honey and wine ; Juno 
endows them with beauty and intellect ; Diana gives them tall- 



84 THE XANTHIAN MARBLES. 

ness of stature ; Minerva teaches them to sew and to weave. 
When they are of a proper age Venus is about to bestow husbands 
on them ; but Jupiter, whose vengeance is not yet satisfied, sends 
the harpies, by whom they are snatched away and carried into 
Tartarus. The story is thus related by Penelope in the twentieth 
book of the Odyssey : — 

And so these daughters fair of Pandarus, 
The whirlwinds took. The gods had slain their kin : 
They were left orphans in their father's house. 
And Aphrodite came to comfort them 
With incense, luscious honey, and fragrant wine : 
And Here gave them beauty of face and soul 
Beyond all women. Purest Artemis 
Endowed them with her stature and with grace. 
And Pallas taught their hands to flash along 
Her famous looms. Then, bright with deity 
Toward far Olympus, Aphrodite went 
To ask of Zeus (who has his thunder-joys 
And his full knowledge of man's mingled fate) 
How best to crown those other gifts with love 
And worthy marriage ! — but what time she went 
The ravishing Harpies snatch'd the maids away, 
And gave them up, for all their loving eyes, 
To serve the Furies with hate constantly !* 

* For this elegant translation, I am indebted to Miss Barrett ; and I can- 
not resist giving here another translation of the same passage, from the 
same pen, so literal as to be almost line for line, and at the same time 
imitating, with singular felicity, the rolling of the Greek hexameters. 

So the storms bore the daughters of Pandarus out into thrall — 
The Gods slew their parents ; the orphans were left in the hall. 
And there, came, to feed their young lives, Aphrodite divine, 
With the incense, the sweet-tasting honey, the sweet-smelling wine : 
Here brought them her wit above woman's, and beauty of face ; 
And pure Artemis gave them her stature, that form might have grace : 
And Athene instructed their hands in her works of renown ; 
Then, afar to Olympus, divine Aphrodite moved on ; 



THE XANTHIAN MARBLES. 

That this catastrophe is aptly significant of death, and therefore 
a fit ornament for a funeral monument, seems clear: and Panda- 
rus having been worshipped in the valley of the Xanthus, gives 
it a peculiar interest and propriety when found decorating a Xan- 
thian tomb. To interpret the rest of the sculpture is not so easy. 
One of the seated figures on the west side has been supposed to 
be Aphrodite, or Venus, and before her the three Graces, closely 
draped, as they are always represented in early Greek art: oppo- 
site is Here, or Juno, also on her throne ; and before her the cow 
and her calf, emblematical of Io and her son. Others are of 
opinion, that the throned figures represent Demeter and Perse- 
phone (Ceres and Proserpine), with the Horee, or Seasons. Au- 
thorities not having agreed as to the significance of the sculptures 
on the other three sides, I will not presume to anticipate learned 
opinions. It is evident that color has been used in every part, 
some traces of which remained when the fragments were dis- 
covered. All the blocks forming this monument have been 
brought away, and there is some idea of reconstructing the whole 
as it stood when found, and setting it up in the Museum. It ap- 
pears to me that to this plan there are strong objections as a mat- 
ter of taste, and with regard to this particular monument : its 
highest value and importance is derived from the very peculiar 
style of the sculpture, which, at twenty feet above the eye within 
the walls of a gloomy Museum, would be out of the reach of ex- 
amination : gloomy I mean comparatively ; for how would it be 
possible to reproduce the effect of the same sculpture when seen, 
in the open air, under the brilliant skies of Lycia ? A model, on 
a small scale, would convey an idea of the form and construc- 
tion ; and, for many reasons, I hope this project will be abandoned. 

To complete other gifts, by uniting each girl to a mate, 
She sought Zeus, who has joy in the thunder and knowledge of fate — 
Whether mortals have good chance or ill ! — But the Harpies alate 
In the storm came, and swept off the maidens, and gave them to wait, 
With that love in their eyes, on the Furies who constantly hate ! 



86 THE XANTHIAN MARBLES. 

The same objections do not apply to the plan of reconstructing 
the other two tombs, wholly different in form, of larger dimen* 
sionsj the sculpture more salient, and in a less peculiar style. 
These also we owe to the last expedition. 

The Chimsera Tomb seems to refer to the story of Bellerophon, 
and to represent a form of this Lycian myth which differs from 
any of those preserved to us by the poets. On one side of the 
arched top is a chariot drawn by four spirited horses, urged on 
by a warrior in a helmet, and a charioteer in a Phrygian cap. 
They are driving against the Chimsera, which seems to retire 
before them in the form of a lioness, with the hinder parts of a 
goat and a dragon. The other side of the arch is very similar, 
except that under the feet of the trampling steeds there is a pan- 
ther instead of the Chimsera. Along the narrow upright ridge, 
about one foot eight inches in width, which surmounts the arched 
cover, runs a bas-relief, representing on one side a battle, on the 
other a funereal subject, which cannot be called exactly a funeral 
procession, and which has not yet been elucidated. This tomb 
had been overthrown by an earthquake ; the cover was found at 
the foot of the base, and no other sculpture than that on the vaulted 
lid was found near it. 

Of still greater interest and beauty is the Winged-Chariot 
Tomb, or, as it is elsewhere denominated, the Tomb of the Satrap. 
On each side of the arched cover is a chariot with winged wheels, 
drawn by four horses, and bearing an armed hero and a chari- 
oteer ; along the upright ridge at top runs a bas-relief, represent- 
ing on one side warriors crossing a river or sea ; on the other, a 
chase. The shaft or middle part, a solid mass of rock, is sculp- 
tured in imitation of wood-work, as if constructed of beams. This 
rests on a base or pedestal, round which runs a frieze in bas- 
relief, about four feet wide. The principal figure, on the east 
side, is a Satrap seated on a throne, and habited exactly like 



THE XANTHIAN MARBLES. 87 



Darius in the Pompeian mosaic of the Battle of Issus, with the 
hood (the peculiar Phrygian cowl — worn also by Harpagus) 
drawn over his head, and covering his chin ; figures of coun- 
cillors or captives are before him.* The same personage is seen 
on the other side armed in the Persian manner, and doing battle ; 
his name, Paiafa, is inscribed over his head. At each end are 
two figures, very majestic and graceful in design. One of these 
groups, a figure draped, who stands in act to crown or to proclaim 
a victor, is repeated in the rock tombs, and seems to signify a 
kind of apotheosis. In interest, singularity, and in beauty of 
workmanship, this stupendous monument is equal to the Harpy 
Tomb ; but the style of art is wholly different, free and animated, 
vigorous, and full of action; while the figures on the Harpy 
Tomb resemble, in the straight, stiff drapery and formal treat- 
ment, the earliest Etruscan, or rather Archaic sculpture. 

But what is most strange and unique in these enormous sepul- 
chres (architectural masses of rock and stone, twenty or thirty 
feet high) is, that in the external form they are imitative of 
wooden constructions, and carved to represent logs, square and 
round ; beam ends, ties, mortices, panels, — in short, they remind 
one of nothing so much as of enormous wooden chests or cabinets. 
In this respect they are quite peculiar to the Lycian people, and 
without any parallel in those specimens of monumental architec- 
ture of the Indians, Egyptians, Etruscans, and Greeks, which are 
known to us ; independent, as it should seem, of any of the orders 
of architecture, if not prior to their invention, but as symmetrical 
and elegant as they are singular. The same peculiarity of the 
imitation of primitive wooden structures is carried into the exca- 

* The group in front of the Satrap corresponds precisely in action with 
groups on the grand staircase of Persepolis, of officers of the court intro- 
ducing tributary princes to the Great King. The figure behind the seat is 
an attendant, whose attitude and costume are also transcripts of Persian 
sculpture, figured by Sir R. K. Porter and Nardin. 



THE XANTHIAN MARBLES. 



vated rock tombs, which abound in the other Lycian cities, par- 
ticularly near Telmessus and Pinara.* From one point (at 
Pinara), which is represented in one of the drawings, fifteen hun- 
dred of these excavations have been counted ; the cliffs, to use 
the expression of Sir C. Fellows, are literally hcmeycombed with 
these singular receptacles, all carved out, some of them richly 
decorated with bas-reliefs, painted with vivid colors. Casts from 
many of these have been brought home in the last expedition ; 
accurate drawings, colored on the spot, from others. These will 
also be placed in the Museum ; and these only can convey a just 
idea of works so wonderful and elaborate, that the least of them 
must have required years of labor ; many of them have been left 
in an unfinished state, and are only roughly hewn out ; the marks 
of the chisel where the workman quitted his work remaining to 
this day. 

To the same period, and to the same people, belong the sculp- 
tured slabs and fragments of friezes which were found built into 
the Roman walls. A spirited procession of chariots — having the 
appearance of a triumph — the horses harnessed and dressed in 
the Persian, not the Greek fashion, j- and four beautiful winged 
sphinxes appear to have adorned a tomb similar to that of the 
satrap Paiafa, and which, having been destroyed and flung down 
ages ago, had served for material to construct the ramparts. 

* Among the most interesting of the illustrations of Sir Charles Fel- 
lows's " Lycia," may be mentioned a plate, at p. 129, representing the huts 
of the modern peasants of the country. In these we find exactly the forms 
of the Greek temple — pillars, pediment, cornice, architrave, in miniature ; 
whether these are rudely copied from the edifices around them, or whether 
derived from the original antique huts, imitated from generation to gene- 
ration and giving us the germ of the perfect architectural combination, I do 
not know ; but I should suppose the latter. 

f The horses have the forelock of the mane twisted into a sort of toupee, 
of which there is no instance in Greek sculpture, though several examples 
occur among the bas-reliefs of Persepolis. 



THE XANTHIAN MARBLES. 89 

Another relic, also found embedded in the old walls — apparently- 
coeval with the above, but with more of breadth and freedom than 
finish in the execution : — is the frieze of wild animals, the bear, 
the deer, the lion attacking the stag, the satyr creeping along the 
ground ; — and a narrower frieze representing fowls and fighting 
cocks, full of life and spirit. 

The monuments just described, whether detached erections or 
excavations, or sculptured fragments, are supposed to be the re- 
mains of a people whom we call the Xanthians or Lycians, but 
who called themselves the Tramilce, and are so styled by Hero- 
dotus ; a people of Scythian origin, intermingled with the Cretan 
colonists. The inscriptions are in a language and character 
which we call Lycian, distinct from Greek, and which philolo- 
gists suppose to be a dialect of the Indo-Germanic or Scythian. 
On some of the sculptured tombs, bilinguar or duplicate inscrip- 
tions have been found, in this tongue and in the Greek — invalua- 
ble to antiquarians. The most remarkable of the inscribed stones, 
is a Stele thirteen feet high, of which the sculpture at top and 
the capstone, if such there were, are lost. The shaft is covered 
on every side with distinct Lycian inscriptions, which, from the 
remarkable difference of their alphabets, appear to have been 
added at considerable intervals. One of them names the son of a 
Harpagus, who is also the subject of a metrical Greek inscription 
on one of the sides ; of this inscription exact casts have been 
taken and copies dispersed through the learned Societies of Eu- 
rope, but as yet it has not been wholly deciphered.* 

II. To the second class of these fragments, which I have 
ventured to call the Greco-Persian, belong a mass of ruins, 
friezes, pediments and mutilated statues, found together in the 

* One portion of the inscription is in the early Greek character, and 
makes the monument itself speak, being written in the first person. — 
" Lycia," p. 170. 



90 THE XANTHIAN MARBLES. 

Greek city, to the south-east of the ancient Acropolis. It is pre- 
sumed that they formed the materials of one edifice — that they 
were shattered and overthrown by an earthquake, and flung down 
the steep declivity, — and that this catastrophe must have taken 
place at a period posterior to the comparatively modern edifices, 
overwhelmed by or in the fall, and lying buried beneath them. 
Amongst these ruins were found the two friezes, now arranged in 
the British Museum : the larger one, about three feet four inches 
in depth, consists of twelve large slabs of Parian marble, brought 
home in 1842, and four more which arrived in 1844, making in 
all sixteen. These represent a furious and animated combat, 
evidently between Greeks and Persians, and the Persians are 
apparently the victorious party. The grouping" and arrangement 
are very animated, the relief bold and salient, the style of art, 
though not first-rate, extremely good. We see here Persians, 
who have struck down Greek warriors, and deadly contests be- 
tween warriors all habited in the Greek fashion ; hence we must 
infer, that in this combat, whatsoever the cause, wheresoever the 
scene, the Persians were assisted by Greek allies against Greeks, 
and were victorious over Greeks. 

The narrow frieze, about two feet in width, is in a style of art 
similar to and contemporary with the last, but even more curious 
and interesting in point of subject. It represents the siege of a 
fortified town ; — people from the country are entreating refuge 
within the walls ; — a warrior is seen peeping over the battlements, 
and looking as if much inclined to question their right of entry ; 
in fact, so comically animated is the expression in this diminutive 
figure, that he actually seems to be shaking his head at them : 
then there is the sally ; the assault ; a chief in Persian attire 
seated under an umbrella, while captive chiefs of the city are 
pleading before him.* 

* The figures appear to be rather envoys than captives, as their limbs are 
free. Another portion of the frieze exhibits captive Lycians fastened by a 



THE XANTHIAN MARBLES. 91 

Notwithstanding the small proportions of this frieze, it is full of 
spirit both in conception and execution, and the story is admirably 
told. Amid the same mass of ruins are two lions finely sculptured, 
but broken into fragments ; these have been brought over and can 
be restored. Also the statues of nymphs and goddesses, with light 
drapery blown out by the wind, fragments of fluted Ionic columns, 
and large portions of a double egg-and-tongue cornice. 

The two friezes, and numerous fragments of the statues and 
columns, have been placed in the British Museum since last year : 
the portions undiscovered or left behind in former expeditions, 
have now arrived, and the work of restoration, as far as the sculp- 
ture is concerned, has been confided to Mr. Westmacott. 

It is the opinion of Sir Charles Fellows, after a minute and 
careful inspection of these blocks, friezes, cornices, columns, 
statues, all found on or near one particular spot, and differing in 
style of art from all the other remains, that they in a manner 
reconstruct themselves into one magnificent edifice of the Ionic 
order, but whether tomb or trophy does not seem clear. To this 
reconstruction has been given the title of the Nereid Tomb ; a 
drawing of the architectural plan and elevation compared with 
the very learned Essay of Mr. Lloyd enables me to give some 
general idea of it. First there is a solid basement of huge blocks 
of stone. Upon this rises a pedestal of Parian marble, thirty feet 
in length. Round the lower part of this pedestal Sir Charles 
Fellows places the broader frieze representing the combat of 
Greek and Persian warriors. Round the upper part runs the 
narrower of the two friezes, that which represents the siege and 
assault. Above this the double cornice. On the summit of this 
ornamented pedestal, with its two friezes, stands a temple-like 
Grecian structure of the Ionic order, having two faces with 

rope passing from neck to neck, precisely as on the ancient Persian bas- 
reliefs. 



92 THE XANTHIAN MARBLES. 

pediments, and sustained by fluted Ionic columns ; between the 
columns, and alternately with them, are the statues with flowing 
drapery, which are supposed to represent Nereids. The sockets 
to receive the columns and the statues are apparent in various 
solid fragments of the cornice, proving that they must have been 
placed above it. The frieze round the cella represents a sacri- 
ficial or funeral procession. Of the western pediment only a part 
of the tympanum has been found, which represents a group of 
warriors. The eastern pediment is adorned by two seated 
figures — a god and a goddess, enthroned opposite to each other, 
and surrounded by youths and virgins. All these fragments 
having an obvious relation to each other in style, and found near 
the same spot, have thus been put together. Of the correctness 
of this architectural reconstruction, architects and antiquarians 
must judge ; and it will probably cause much discussion. Of its 
beauty, and of its analogy in point of form and style, with other 
monuments existing in the country, though not in the immediate 
neighborhood, there can be no doubt whatever. As to the pur- 
port of the sculptural part of these remains, the friezes already 
described, it seems generally agreed that they relate to the history 
of Harpagus, and that it is the old Satrap himself who is repre- 
sented in the narrower frieze, enthroned under the umbrella, and 
dealing judgment on the captives. 

This will be better understood by a rapid glance at the story 
as told in Herodotus. Astyages, King of Persia, having been 
warned in a dream that his infant grandson, Cyrus, would deprive 
him of his kingdom, commanded Harpagus to destroy the child. 
Harpagus, struck with pity, disobeyed the order, and only exposed 
it : on learning this Astyages ordered the son of Harpagus to be 
slain, and served up at the table of the parent, afterwards inform- 
ing him that he had feasted on the body of his son. Harpagus 
vowed against the tyrant a deep and deadly vengeance ; and twelve 
years afterwards assisted Cyrus to ascend his grandfather's throne. 



THE XANTHIAN MARBLES. 93 

After this we find Harpagus in great favor with Cyrus, and among 
his recorded actions we have the conquest of Lycia, and the siege 
and capture of the city of Xanthus. 

It appears that these events took place about 559 years before 
the Christian era ; that Harpagus was assisted by a body of Io- 
nian and iEolian mercenaries (which exactly tallies with the rep- 
resentation on the two friezes) ; and that the Xanthians, on this 
occasion, disdaining to yield, put to death their wives and chil- 
dren, then sallied forth on the enemy, and died fighting before the 
walls of their town. In the opinion of Sir Charles Fellows, the 
whole edifice was either a trophy erected at a later period to com- 
memorate this event, or a mausoleum to the honor of the Greek 
warriors who fought on the side of the Persians. On the other 
hand, it is the opinion of Mr. Lloyd, that the monument was de- 
dicated to the powers of prolific Nature, as an expression of gra- 
titude for the restoration of the prosperity and population of the 
city after the devastating conquest of Harpagus ; — that it partook 
of the character of tomb as well as of temple, and was the mau- 
soleum of the defenders of Xanthus, the destruction of which is 
represented in the frieze round the pedestal ; — while above are 
the beneficent divinities by whom the destruction is repaired.* Un- 
fortunately, no inscription has been found, though diligently 
sought for. 

The subject is a Persian conquest, — the style and the work- 
manship pure Greek. These two points are certain ; the rest is 
conjecture, which future researches may either confirm or refute. 

To this class of fragments of Greek art also belong the small 
friezes representing funeral subjects ; a procession bearing pre- 
sents, and a chase, very spirited in design and treatment, but 
rather unfinished in style of execution. These are in the British 
Museum. 

* See the learned "Essay on the Nereid Monument," published by 
W. W. Lloyd, Esq. 



94 THE XANTHIAN MARBLES. 

III. The third class of fragments are those referable to the time 
of the Roman dominion. Lycia, as the reader need hardly be re- 
minded, became a Roman province under Vespasian. The relics 
of this period are not very valuable ; those which have been brought 
away are the two Metopes and Trigliphs, from the triumphal arch 
or gateway, inscribed with the name of Vespasian, and some il- 
lustrative Drawings representing baths, mosaic pavements, sar- 
cophagi, &c, besides numerous coins and inscriptions. 

It was in clearing away the rubbish which choked up the arch 
of Vespasian, that they came to a part of the old Cyclopian walls, 
and found thereon an inscription in honor of Glaucus and Sarpe- 
don, the gentlest of the Homeric heroes, carrying the imagination 
back to Homer and the mingling streams of poetry and history : — 

" Why boast we, Glaucus, our extended reign, 
Where Xanthus' streams enrich the Lycian plain, 
Why on those shores are we with joy surveyed, 
Admired as heroes, and as gods obeyed, 
Unless great acts superior merits prove, 
And vindicate the bounteous Power above ?" 

Iliad, B. xii. 

How vulgar are all the Roman associations in comparison to those 
exquisite Greek legends through which humanity was deified! 
This whole address of Sarpedon might well be termed a foresha- 
dowing of chivalry in its noblest and most unselfish form. 

IV. Of the fourth class — the Byzantine or early Christian re- 
mains — there were found in Xanthus the ruins of several large 
churches, convents, and chapels, constructed, as in Italy, out of 
the ruins of Pagan grandeur. The fortifications of the city date 
from this period, and a great part of the sculptures recently 
brought away were found built into the ramparts, as well as into 
the walls of common dwellings ;-evidence that here, as elsewhere, 
the tide of devastating barbarism was succeeded by a state of be- 



THE XANTHIAN MARBLES. 95 

numbed ignorance and bigotry. Crosses of various forms, and 
other Christian emblems and monograms, were found ; and speci- 
mens of these, and of iron- work, pottery ware with the Rhodian 
stamp, fragments of glass, &c, have been brought away ; thus 
completing the series of remains illustrating the religion, history, 
and arts of the Lycian cities from the earliest to the latest period 
of their existence, through a space of about a thousand years. 

It remains to mention the series of illustrative Drawings which 
have been executed by Mr. George Scharf, the artist who accom- 
panied Sir Charles Fellows in the two last expeditions. And 
first, there is a large panoramic view of the whole valley of the 
Xanthus, taken from the Acropolis, representing accurately the 
exact locality of the various relics since removed, the situations and 
elevations of the principal monuments, the Harpy Tomb, Lion 
Tomb, Winged-Chariot Tomb, the Greek Arch, &c. ; the manner 
in which the Greek fragments lay together ; the river flowing to 
the sea ; the surrounding hills and the distant snow-capped summits 
of Mount Cragus bounding the prospect. Other Drawings are ex- 
ecuted in a light, yet firm and effective style, on tinted paper re- 
lieved with white. These represent the grand old tombs (already 
described) as they originally stood, and others still standing ; views 
of the Rock Tombs ; of the scenery round, intermingled with 
figures of the present inhabitants, and groups exhibiting the pic- 
turesque operations of the excavators ; together with other sub- 
jects of interest. 

These Drawings, with some small Models of the Stelae and the 
singular Arched Tombs, and a Model of the reconstruction of 
the Nereid Monument, will, I hope, be placed in the gallery now 
preparing to receive these relics. They will assist the public to 
a comprehension of their import, and greatly add to the interest 
of the collection, in the same manner that the elegant and accu- 
rate models of the Parthenon now placed in the gallery of the 
Elgin Marbles help us to illustrate those wonderful remains. The 



96 THE XANTHIAN MARBLES. 

Drawings ought to be hung up where they can be accessible to 
all. 

It is true that, to look from these beautiful Drawings to the 
sculptured marbles as they now lie in the dark vaults where their 
beauty is hidden in gloom ; or scattered about in the court-yards 
among vulgar modern rubbish, brick and plaster, — or, as I last 
saw them, with the fog and rain of our chill climate beating on 
them, — does certainly awaken a melancholy feeling ; and, as we 
gaze around us, half in awe, and half in pity, the thought flashes 
across us — " Have we done well to bring these fair monumental 
forms away from their own bright land 1 to dig them up where 
they rested amid olive groves and cypresses, and flowery bushes 
which veiled decay with beauty ? to pull them down, where they 
stood up in the blue air against the shining sky, upon heights 
clothed with living verdure, — to exhibit to vulgar starers their 
mutilated grandeur, or build up again their giant fragments 
in our gloomy air, in our confined halls ? Oh, beauty ! Oh, 
death ! Oh, memory ! — is not this desecration ? — is not this profana- 
tion V But a true voice within us answers, " No, it is not ; but 
rather a new hallowing of the sacred old. We have taken them 
from the silence and oblivion of the ignorant desert — from the 
haunt of the wolf and the vulture — and we shall place them 
where intelligence, and thought, and enthusiasm, and admiration, 
and wonder, shall throw round them a glory beyond the glory of 
their own beauty, and envelope them in an atmosphere of light 
brighter than that of the sun-illumined solitudes whence they 



came ! 



i" 



IV. 

MEMOIR OF 

WASHINGTON ALLSTON, 

AND HIS AXIOMS ON ART. 

(January 1, 1844.) 



WASHINGTON ALLSTON. 99 



WASHINGTON ALLSTON. 

It has been suggested that I should throw together such notes 
and reminiscences as occur to me relative to Allston, his charac- 
ter, and his works. I commence the task, not without a feeling 
of reverential timidity, wishing that it had fallen into more com- 
petent hands ; — and yet gladly ; — strong in the feeling that it is 
a debt due to his memory ; since, when living, he honored me 
so far as to desire I should be the expositor of some of his opi- 
nions, thoughts, and aims, as an artist. I knew him, and count 
among the memorable passages of my life the few brief hours 
spent in communion with him : — 

" Benedetto sia il giorno, e'l mese, 
E l'anno. " 

It is understood that his letters, papers, and other memorials 
of his life, have been left by will at the disposal of a gifted rela- 
tive every way capable of fulfilling the task of biographer.* 
Meantime, these few personal recollections, these fragments of 
his own mind, which I am able to give, will be perused with the 
sympathy of indulgence by those who in the artist reverenced 
the man ; and with interest, and perhaps with advantage, by those 
who knew the artist only in his works. 

When in America, I was struck by the manner in which the 

* His brother-in-law, Mr. Dana, himself a poet, and whose son wrote 
that admirable book, " Two Years before the Mast." Up to this time 
(May, 1346) the promised Memoir has not appeared. 



100 WASHINGTON ALLSTON. 

imaginative talent of the people had thrown itself forth in paint- 
ing ; the country seemed to me to swarm with painters. In the 
Western States society was too new to admit of more than blind 
and abortive efforts in Art ; genius itself was extinguished amid 
the mere material wants of existence : the green wood kindled, 
and was consumed in its own smoke, and gave forth no visible 
flame either to warm or to enlighten. In the Eastern States, 
the immense proportion of positively and outrageously bad paint- 
ers was, in a certain sense, a consolation and an encouragement : 
there was too much genius for mediocrity ; — they had started 
from a wrong point ; — and in the union of self-conceit and igno 
ranee with talent, — and in the absence of all good models, or any 
guiding-light, — they had certainly put forth perpetrations, not to 
be equalled in originality and perversity. The case, individu- 
ally, was as hopeless as mediocrity would be in any other coun- 
try ; — but here was the material ready ; — the general, the national 
talent to be worked out. I remember a young American who, 
having gained a local celebrity in some township, or perhaps 
some Sovereign State, about as old as himself and as wise, had 
betaken himself to Italy. I met him at Vienna as he was hurry- 
ing back ; he had travelled from Milan to Naples, and found all 
barren : he said he had " looked over the old masters, and could 
see nothing in them, — all their fame nothing but old-world cant 
and prejudice !" I thought of some, who, under the same cir- 
cumstances and influences, would have gone back and rent their 
garments, or at least their canvass, and began anew. What this 
young man may have since done remains, with his name, un- 
known. I found some others actuated by a far different spirit ; — 
laboring hard for what they could get ; — living on bread and 
water, and going in threadbare coats, aye, and brimless hats, 
that they might save enough to make a voyage to Europe. Some 
I found looking at Nature, and imitating her in her more obvious 
external aspects, with such a simplicity and earnestness, that 



WASHINGTON ALLSTON. 101 

their productions, in spite of most crude and defective execution, 
fixed attention. Some had stirred deeper waters, — had begun 
aright, — had given indications of high promise, of high power, — 
yet, for want of a more exalted standard of taste to keep the 
feeling of beauty striving upwards, pure and elevated, were de- 
generating gradually into vulgarity, littleness, and hopeless 
mannerism. 

Coleridge says somewhere, " The Arts and the Muses both 
spring forth in the youth of nations, like Minerva from the front 
of Jupiter, all armed." 

Now this is not true of America — at least not yet. I remem- 
ber that when I was at Boston, and possessed for the time with 
the idea of Allston and his pictures, I made the acquaintance of 
Father Taylor, a man whose ordinary conversation was as poeti- 
cal, as figurative, as his sermons, and I could add, as earnest 
and as instructive : poetry seemed the natural element of his 
mind, and " he could not ope his mouth but out there flew a 
trope," unafFectedly and spontaneously, however, — as it were, 
unconsciously. One evening, when deprecating the idea of ri- 
valry between England and America, he said, " Are they not one 
and the same ? even as Jacob's vine, which being planted on one 
side of the wall, grew over it, and hung its boughs and clusters 
on the other side — but still it was the same vine, nourished from 
the same root." Now to vary a little this apposite and beautiful 
illustration, I would say, that while America can gather grapes 
from the old vine, she will not plant for herself, nor even cherish 
the off-shoots ; in other words, — America, as long as she can 
import our muses cheap, will have no muses of her own — no 
literature : for half a dozen or a dozen charming authors do not 
make a national literature ; but she cannot import our painters, 
therefore I have some hope that she will produce a national and 
original school of art. Is it not much that America in her 



102 WASHINGTON ALLSTON. 

youthhood has already sent forth so many painters of European 
celebrity ? Once it was her glory, that she had given us West ; 
but the fame of West is paling in the dawn of a better and a 
brighter day, and there is nothing in his genius that does not 
savor more of the decrepitude than the youth of art. He con- 
ceived great things, but he never conceived them greatly ; neither 
his mind nor his hand ever rose " to the height of his argument," 
— the most blameless and the most undramatic of painters ! 
Let America be more justly proud that she has given to the world 
— to the two worlds — greater men, whose genius can only 
" brighten in the blaze of day." I will not speak here of New- 
ton, of Greenhough the sculptor, of Cole the admirable landscape 
painter, of Inman the portrait painter, and others, whose increas- 
ing reputation has not yet spread into fame : but of Leslie, yet 
living among us, one of the most poetical painters of the age, the 
finest interpreter of the spirit of Shakspeare the world has yet 
seen, — Leslie, whom England, — deliberately chosen for his 
dwelling-place, and enriched by his works, — may claim as her 
own ; and of Allston, not inferior in genius, and of grandeur 
of aim and purpose, who died recently in his own land — would that 
he had died, or at least lived in ours ! There was in the mind 
of this extraordinary man a touch of the listless and the morbid, 
which required the spur of generous emulation, of enlightened 
criticism, of sympathetic praise, to excite him to throw forth the 
rich creative power of his genius in all its might. 

Wilkie used to say, that after receiving one of Sir George 
Beaumont's critical letters, he always painted with more alacrity 
for the rest of the day : an artist feels the presence — the enlighten- 
ing and enlivening power of sympathy, even when it comes in the 
shape of censure. If the genius of Allston languished in America, 
certainly it was not for want of patronage so called — it was not 
for want of praise. The Americans, more particularly those of 



WASHINGTON ALLSTON. 103 

his own city, were proud of him and his European reputation. 
Whenever a picture left his easel, there were many to compete 
for it. They spoke of pictures of Allston which existed in the 
palaces of English nobles, — of Lord Egremont's " Jacob's 
Dream," of the Duke of Sutherland's " Uriel in the Sun," — and 
they triumphed in the astonishment and admiration of a stranger, 
who started to find Venetian sentiment, grandeur, and color, in the 
works of a Boston painter, buried out of sight, almost out of 
mind, for five-and-twenty years — a whole generation of European 
amateurs. 

Though glorified by his fellow-citizens, and conscious that he 
had achieved an immortality on earth, it did strike me when 
I was in Allston's society, that some inward or outward stimulus 
to exertion was wanting ; that the ideal power had of late years 
overwhelmed his powers of execution ; that the life he was living 
as an artist was neither a healthy nor a happy life. He dreamed 
away, or talked away whole hours in his painting- room, but 
he painted little. He had fallen into a habit which must be per- 
dition to an artist, — a habit of keeping late hours, sleeping in the 
morning, and giving much of the night to reading, or to conversa- 
tion. I heard complaints of his dilatoriness. He said of himself, 
with a sort of consciousness, and in a deprecating tone, " You 
must not judge of my industry by the number of pictures I have 
painted, but the number I have destroyed." In a letter from one 
of his friends now lying before me, I find a passage alluding to this 
point, which deserves to be transcribed for its own feeling and 
beauty, as well as its bearing on the subject. "Often have 
I rebelled against the unthinking judgments which are sometimes 
passed upon Allston, because he does not produce more works : 
he is sometimes called idle ; let those who make the charge first 
try to comprehend the largeness and the fineness of his views of 
fame." (What these views were we shall see presently in his 



104 WASHINGTON ALLSTON. 



own words.) " What right have I to sit in judgment upon 
genius, until I know more of that mysterious organization which, 
however lawless it may seem to others, is yet a law to itself? 
this, that, and the other thing I would amend ; am I quite sure that 
in so doing, I should not break or mar the whole ? We must 
take genius as it is, and thank it for what it gives us, and thank 
Heaven for having given us it. How beautifully the intellectual 
and spiritual part of Allston's nature is blended with his genius 
as an artist, you have seen and felt ; it is the spirit of the man 
which hallows his works. You once said we had no right to him 
— that you envied us the possession of such a man. Oh, envy us 
not ! — rob us not of the little we have, which can call off our 
American mind from the absorbing and hot pursuit of vulgar 
wealth, and the love of perishing things, to those calm contempla- 
tions which embody in immortal forms the beautiful and the 
true !" 

Allston has been for so many years absent from England, his 
merits, even his name, so little known to the present generation 
of artists and lovers of art in this country, that a sketch of the 
incidents of his life, before the period of my own personal recol- 
lections, may not be unwelcome.* 

Washington Allston was a native of South Carolina, and born 
in 1779. He says of himself, in some notes sent to Mr. Dunlop, 
that the turn for imitation and composition had shown itself as 
early as six years old. His delight was to put together miniature 
landscapes of his own invention, built up with moss, sticks, peb- 
bles, and twigs representing trees ; and in manufacturing little 
men and women out of fern stalks. These childish fancies, he 

* Most of the facts and dates in the following sketch are taken from 
" Dunlop's History of the Arts of Design in the United States," a gossiping, 
tedious, and conceited book ; yet, in particular biographies, bearing evident 
marks of authenticity and sincerity. 



WASHINGTON ALLSTON. 105 

says, " were the straws by which an observer raiglit have guessed 
which way the current was setting for after-life. And yet, after 
all, this love of imitation may be common to childhood. General 
imitation certainly is : but whether adherence to particular kinds 
may not indicate a permanent propensity, I leave to those who 
have studied the subject more than I have, to decide." 

He adverts to another characteristic : his early passion for the 
wild, the marvellous, and the terrific, and his delight in the stories 
of enchantments, hags, and witches, related by his father's negroes. 
From these sports and influences he was soon torn away — sent to 
school and college, where he went through the usual course 
of studies : never relinquishing the darling pursuit of his child- 
hood, but continuing, unconsciously, the education of his imita- 
tive powers. He drew from prints : and before he left school had 
attempted compositions of his own. " I never," he says, " had 
any regular instructor in the art (a circumstance, I would observe, 
both idle and absurd to boast of), but I had much incidental in- 
struction, which I have always, through life, been glad to receive 
from every one in advance of myself. And I may add, that there 
is no such thing as a self-taught artist, in the ignorant acceptation 
of the words ; for the greatest genius that ever lived must be 
indebted to others — if not by direct teaching, yet indirectly through 
their works." 

This reminds us of what Goethe once said of himself: — " Peo- 
ple talk of originality, — what do they mean? — as soon as we are 
born the surrounding world begins to operate upon us, and so on 
to the end ; and after all, what can we truly call our own but 
energy, power, will ? Could I point out all I owe to my great fore- 
runners and contemporaries — truly there would remain but little 
over." Yet there is such a thing as originality, and we all feel 
it as a presence — just as we acknowledge a particular look in a 
portrait or countenance without exactly defining in what consists 
the differences between this particular face and all other faces ; — 
6* 



106 WASHINGTON ALLSTON. 

that which is produced may be the result of a combination of 
influences ; — but if stamped by the individual mind, it is what we 
call original, for it could have been produced only by that mind ; 
— it can be imitated, but never be reproduced by another. 
Mozart, who was certainly no metaphysician, seems to have hit 
upon the true definition. He said : " I do not aim at originality ; 
I do not know in what mine consists ; — why my productions take 
from my hand that particular form or style which makes them 
Mozartish and different from the works of other composers, is 
probably owing to the same cause which renders my nose thus or 
thus, — aquiline, or otherwise, — or, in short, makes it Mozart's, 
and different from other people's." Self-taught persons, — be they 
artists or not, — are not always, nor even often, original as regards 
the product of the mind. 

But, to return from this long digression. Allston's artistic educa- 
tion continued with little help, certainly, as regards the direction of 
his genius. When at Harvard College, he attempted to paint in 
miniature, but "could make no hand of it." We can easily 
imagine that the teeming powers of his young mind required a 
far readier and a far larger medium of expression, than the elabo- 
rate iteration of miniature painting.* 

He was seized about this time with what he calls a banditti 
mania. All his inventions and sketches were of scenes of 
violence ; and he did not get rid of these " cut-throat fancies " 
till he had been for some time in Europe. 

Before he left college, his future career was determined. Left 
early master of himself, he sold his paternal estate for the purpose 
of studying in Europe. He had generous friends, who came 

* Haydon, once expressing his admiration of Allston, alluded to his hav- 
ing given up miniature painting, and remarked acutely, " Next to know- 
ing what he can do, the best acquisition for an artist is to know what he 
cannot do." Did Mr. Haydon ever study to acquire this knowledge ? 



WASHINGTON ALLSTON. 107 

forward with offers of aid — who would fain have prevented this 
sacrifice of his property. But Allston, with the high spirit which 
through life distinguished him, refused these offers, and threw 
himself, at once and finally, on his own resources. 

He arrived in England in 1803 ; was received by his country- 
man, West, then President of our Academy, with his usual 
urbanity and kindness ; and by Fuseli — not always courteous — 
with distinguished courtesy. There seems to have been, from the 
first, an immediate and intelligent sympathy between these two 
poetically gifted spirits. Allston confesses that he then thought 
Fuseli " the greatest painter in the world ;" and he retained a 
more qualified predilection for him ever after. His preference 
of Fuseli to West at that time, favored as he was by the attention 
and kindness of the latter, marks the poet : for such Allston was. 
Fuseli asked him what branch of art he intended to pursue : he 
replied, " History." " Then, Sir, you have come a great way to 
starve !" was the characteristic reply. 

The effect which Sir Joshua's pictures produced and left on his 
imagination, also stamps the particular bent of his mind and 
character. He said, happily, " There is a fascination about them, 
which makes it almost ungrateful to think of their defects." 

Allston remained two years in England, and exhibited three 
pictures ; one of them (a comic subject) he sold. This was be- 
ginning well. In 1804 he went to Paris, studied and meditated in 
the Gallery of the Louvre, then rich with the spoils of nations ; 
copied Rubens in the Luxembourg ; and proceeded to Italy, where 
he remained four years, residing chiefly at Rome, where Thor- 
waldsen was his fellow-student. His feeling for what the grand 
old masters had achieved, was deep — was genuine. They grew 
upon his mind, as they do on all minds large enough to take them 
in. In his appreciation of Michael Angelo, he agreed with Sir 



108 WASHINGTON ALLSTON. 

Joshua : " I know not," he said, " how to speak of Michael 
Angelo in adequate terms of reverence." Allston was not satis- 
fied with reverencing the old masters, and copying their pictures : 
he imitated their mode of study, and devoted much time to the 
modelling of the figure in clay. That boldness and firmness of 
drawing and foreshortening which he displayed in his pictures, 
even his smallest compositions, may be traced to this practice. 
He said, late in life, " I would recommend modelling to all young 
painters, as one of the best means of acquiring an accurate know- 
ledge of form. I have occasionally practised it ever since." At 
Rome Allston first became distinguished as a mellow and harmo- 
nious colorist ; and acquired, among the native German painters, 
the name of the American Titian : there he formed a lasting 
friendship with Coleridge and Washington Irving. He said of 
Coleridge, " To no other man whom I have ever known do I owe 
so much intellectually. He used to call Rome ' the silent city ;' 
but I never could think of it as such while with him ; for — meet 
him when or where I would — the fountain of his mind was never 
dry ; but, like the far-reaching aqueducts that once supplied this 
mistress of the world, its living streams seemed especially to flow 
for every classic ruin over which we wandered. When I recall 
some of our walks under the pines of the Villa Borghese, I am 
almost tempted to dream that I had once listened to Plato in the 
groves of the Academy. It was there he taught me this golden 
rule, ' never to judge of a work of art by its defects ;' — a rule as 
wise as benevolent ; — and one which, while it has spared me 
much pain, has widened my sphere of pleasure." Notwithstand- 
ing his sensitive taste, Allston remained to the end of his life " a 
wide-liker," to borrow his own expression. 

He returned to America in 1809, and in 1810 married Miss 
Channing, the sister of the great Dr. Channing. In 1811 we 
find him again in England, accompanied by his" wife. The first 



WASHINGTON ALLSTON. 109 



work he commenced, after his arrival, was one of his grandest 
pictures, " The Dead Man revived by Elisha's Bones," which is 
now at Philadelphia. While this picture was in progress, Allston 
was seized with a dangerous nervous disorder. He went down 
to Clifton, where he placed himself under Dr. King, the cele- 
brated surgeon (married to one of the Edgeworths), who, from his 
medical attendant, became his friend. He painted half-length 
portraits of Dr. King and Mrs. King, which he considered among 
his best works in that style. For Mr. Vanderhost, of Bristol, he 
painted a large Italian landscepe and a sea-piece. On his return 
to London he lost his amiable wife, after a union of three short 
years. In the letters already quoted, he alludes feelingly and 
briefly to his loss : — " The death of my wife left me nothing but my 
art, which then seemed to me as nothing !" In fact, his bereave- 
ment is said to have caused a temporary derangement of his 
intellect. Under this sorrow he was sustained and consoled by 
his friend Leslie, and by degrees his mind regained its tone and 
its powers. The beautiful little picture of the " Mother and 
Child " (which seems at first to have been intended for a repre- 
sentation of the Virgin and Infant Saviour, and instantly brings 
that subject to mind in its truly Italian and yet original treat- 
ment) was painted in England at this time. I saw it at Philadel- 
phia in the possession of Mr. M'Murtie, and thought it charm- 
ing ; but, as he had said himself, " the mother was too matronly 
for a madonna." In the year 1816 Allston sold his great picture 
of " The Dead Man Restored to Life," &c, to the Pennsylvanian 
Academy for 3,500 dollars, about 700Z. It had previously 
obtained, from the Directors of the British Institution, the prize 
of 200 guineas. He had planned a great picture of "Christ 
Healing the Sick," but, on reflection, abandoned it, deterred by 
the failure of all attempts, ancient and modern, to give an adequate 
idea of the Saviour. Yet I cannot help wishing that he had 
entered the lists with West, who never seems to have mistrusted 



110 WASHINGTON ALLSTON. 

his own powers to represent any theme, however high, however 
holy. But Allston was a poet — felt, thought, painted like a poet ; 
knew what it is to recoil ••and tremble in presence of the divine ; 
— and this is just what the pious and excellent West knew not. 

In 1817, Allston painted his picture of "Jacob's Dream,'' 
which was purchased immediately by Lord Egremont, and is now 
at Petworth. The subject is very sublimely and originally 
treated, with a feeling wholly distinct from the shadowy mysti- 
cism of Rembrandt, and the graceful simplicity of Raphael. 
Instead of a ladder or steps, with a few angels, he gave the idea 
of a glorious vision, in which countless myriads of the heavenly 
host are seen dissolving into light and distance, and immeasura- 
ble flights of steps rising, spreading above and beyond each other, 
till lost in infinitude. 

That Allston had seen Rembrandt's miraculous little picture in 
the Dulwich Gallery — a thing, which once seen, ever afterwards 
haunts the imagination, as though it had been itself stolen out of 
the mysterious land of dreams, — is proved by a sonnet, suggested 
by the picture, and which I copy here as a fair specimen of his 
printed poems. 

As in that twilight superstitious age 

When all beyond the narrow grasp of mind 

Seemed fraught with meanings of supernal kind ; 

When e'en the learned, philosophic sage 

Wont with the stars through boundless space to range. 

Listen'd with reverence to the changeling's tale, 

E'en so, thou strangest of all beings strange ! 

E'en so thy visionary scenes I hail, 

That like the rambling of an idiot's speech 

No image giving of a thing on earth, 

Nor thought significant in reason's reach, 

Yet in their random shadowings give birth 

To thoughts and things from other worlds that come, 

And fill the soul and strike the reason dumb. 



WASHINGTON ALLSTON. Ill 

Not that I can believe that Rembrandt's " shadowings" were 
mere random, or that he deserved to be likened to an " inspired 
idiot," any more than Shakspeare ; but general or egotistic criti- 
cism is here out of place. I return to my proper theme, which is 
Allston, not Rembrandt. 

Another grand picture, painted in England, " Uriel in the 
Sun" (Paradise Lost, b. iii.), was purchased by the late Marquis 
of Stafford, and is now at Trentham Hall. It is a colossal figure, 
foreshortened, nearly twice the size of life. His own account 
of the method he took to produce the effect of light in this picture 
is worth preserving : " I surrounded him, and the rock of adamant 
on which he sat, with the prismatic colors, in the order in which 
the ray of light is decomposed by the prism. I laid them on with 
the strongest colors; and then with transparent color, so inti- 
mately blended them as to reproduce the original ray ; it was so 
bright that it made your eyes twinkle as you looked at it."* 

In 1818, he returned to America, seized with a home-sickness 
which no encouragement or admiration received in England — no 
friendships formed here (though among his friends he counted 
such men as Coleridge, Sir George Beaumont, and Leslie) — could 
overcome. He was elected Associate of the Royal Academy the 
same year — and would have been an R.A. but for one of the 
laws of the Academy, which renders no artist eligible as Acade- 
mician, who is not resident in England. He took with him to 
America only one finished picture, " Elijah in the Wilderness," 
and this picture remained on his hands till the year 1832. Mr. 
Labouchere, when travelling in America, saw it in the house of 
Mr. Davis, of Boston, and became the purchaser ; it is now in 
England. 

* I have never seen this picture, therefore cannot say what is the present 
effect of the coloring, or whether it retains this dazzling effect. 



112 WASHINGTON ALLSTON. 

From the period of his arrival in America in 1818, Allston re- 
mained settled at Cambridge-Port, near Boston. In the vicinity 
of his dwelling-house he had erected a large and commodious 
painting-room. His benevolent and social qualities, not less than 
his various intellectual accomplishments, had gathered round him 
many loving and admiring friends, — and among the professors of 
Harvard University he found many congenial associates. He 
was an admirable narrator, his good stories being often invented 
for the occasion. The vivacity of his conceptions, and the glow- 
ino- lancruasre in which he could clothe them, rendered his conver- 
sation inexpressibly delightful and exciting. I remember, after 
an evening spent with him, returning home very, very late (I think 
it was near three in the morning) — with the feelings of one who had 
been magnetized. Could I remember to detail anything he said 
I should not here report it, but I will give one or two passages 
from my notes which show that he could paint with words as well 
as with pigments. 

He says in one of his letters — " I saw the sun rise on lake 
Maggiore — such a sunrise ! the giant Alps seemed, literally, to 
rise from their purple beds, and putting on their croions of gold to 
send up a Hallelujah almost audible f" In speaking of a picture — 
the " Entombment of the Virgin," " in which the expression and 
the tremendous depth of color" had forcibly struck him, he said, 
" it seemed as I looked at it as if the ground shook under their tread, 
as if the air was darkened by their grief" When a young painter 
brought him a landscape for his inspection, he observed, " Your trees 
do not look as if the birds would fly through them /" About four 
or five years ago he published a romance entitled " Moldini," 
which I thought ill constructed as a story, but which contained 
some powerful descriptions, and some passages relative to pictures 
and to art such as only a painter-poet could have written. It is 
said, I know not how truly, that he has left a series of lectures 



WASHINGTON ALLSTON. 113 

on painting in a complete state : these, no doubt, will be given 
to the public. 

His death took place on the 9th of June, 1843. After a cheer- 
ful evening spent with his friends, the pang of a single moment 
released his soul to its immortal home. He had just laid his 
hands on the head of a favorite young friend, and after begging 
her to live as near perfection as she could, he blessed her with 
fervent solemnity. Even with that blessing on his lips he died. 
He was buried by torch-light, in the beautiful cemetery of Mount 
Auburn, where hundreds had gathered round to look, for the last 
time, on a face which death had scarcely changed, save that 
" the spirit had left her throne of light." 

About two years before his death, there was an exhibition of his 
works at Boston — an exhibition which, in the amount of excel- 
lence, might well be compared to the room full of Sir Joshua's at 
the Institution last year. Those who have not seen many of 
Allston's pictures, will hardly believe this ; those who have, will 
admit the justice of the comparison — will remember those of his 
creations, in which he combined the richest tones of color with 
the utmost delicacy and depth of expression, and added to these 
merits a softness and finish of execution and correctness of draw- 
ing — particularly in the extremities — which Sir Joshua never 
entertained, nor, perhaps, attempted. When I have thought of 
the vehement poetical sensibility with which Allston was endowed 
— his early turn for the wild, the marvellous, the terrible — his 
nervous temperament, and the sort of dreamy indolence which 
every now and then seemed to come over him, I have more and 
more deeply appreciated the sober grandeur of his compositions, 
the refined grace of some of his most poetical creations, the har- 
monious sweetness which tempered his most gorgeous combina- 
tions of color, and the conscientious patient care with which every 



114 WASHINGTON ALLSTON. 

little detail was executed : in this last characteristic, and in the 
predominance of the violet tints in the flesh and shadows, some of 
his pictures reminded me more of Lionardo da Vinci than of 
Titian or of Reynolds. His taste was singularly pure — even to 
fastidiousness. It had gone on refining and refining ; and in the 
same manner his ideal had become more and more spiritual, his 
moral sense more and more elevated, till, in their combination, 
they seemed at last to have overpowered the material of his art — 
to have paralyzed his hand. 

In his maturer years, he was far, very far, from the banditti 
mania of his youth. When applied to by the American govern- 
ment to assist in decorating the Rotunda at Washington, he said, 
" I will paint only one subject, and choose my own — no battle- 
piece!" In this, and in many other things, he reminded me of a 
great painter of our own — Eastlake — who also, if I remember 
rightly, began with the banditti mania and the melodramatic in 
art, and is now distinguished by the same refined and elevated 
taste in the selection as well as in the treatment of a subject, the 
same elaborate elegance of execution, and, I may add, the same 
power as a thinker in his art. No man ever more completely 
stamped the character of his mind upon his works than did All- 
ston. In speaking of the individuality which the old masters 
threw into their works, he said — " This power of infusing one's 
own life, as it were, into that which is feigned, appears to rne the 
prerogative of Genius alone. In a work of art, it is what a man 
may well call his own, for it cannot be borrowed or imitated." 
This, in fact, is what we may truly call originality. He com- 
bated strenuously the axiom cherished and quoted by young and 
idle painters, that leaving things unfinished is " leaving something 
to the imagination." The very statement, as he observed, betrays 
the unsoundness of the position, " for that which is unfinished, 
must necessarily be imperfect — so that, according to this rule, 
imperfection is made essential to perfection ; the error lies in 



WASHINGTON ALLSTON. 115 

the phrase, * left to the imagination/ and it has filled modern art 
with random flourishes of no meaning." 

Instead of saying, in common phrase, that " in a picture some- 
thing should always be left to the imagination," we should rather 
say that a picture " should always suggest something to the ima- 
gination ;" or, as Goethe has finely expressed it, " every consum- 
mate work of art should leave something for the intellect to di- 
vine." In the axiom so put, there is no danger of misinterpreta- 
tion — no excuse for those who put us off with random flourishes, 
where feet, or fingers, eyes, nose and mouth ought to be, but are 
left, in the common phrase, to the imagination. 

As Allston's works were in accordance with his mind — so, to 
complete the beautiful harmony of the man's whole being, were 
his countenance, person, and deportment, in accordance with 
both. 

When I saw him, in 1838, I was struck by the dignity of his 
figure, and by the simple grace of his manners : his dress was 
rather careless, and he wore his own fine silver hair long and 
flowing ; his forehead and eyes were remarkably good ; the 
general expression of his countenance open, serious, and sweet ; 
the tone of his voice earnest, soft, penetrating. Notwithstanding 
the nervous irritability of his constitution, which the dangerous 
and prolonged illness in 1811 had enhanced, he was particularly 
gentle and self-possessed. 

He was at that time painting on two great pictures, the " Death 
of King John," and " Belshazzar's Feast." The first he declined 
showing me, because, as he said, " to exhibit his pictures to any 
other eye in certain stages of their progress, always threw cold 
water on him."* The latter I was warned not to speak of. It 

* He afterwards, with the sensitive delicacy which belonged to his cha- 
racter, apologized for his refusal in words which I transcribe. " Mrs. 
Jameson must not suppose that I declined showing her ' King John ' in its 
unfinished state, because I had any secrets in my practice, which, she is no 



116 WASHINGTON ALLSTON. 

had been in hand since 1814, had been begun on an immense 
scale (16 or 17 feet in length), and he had gone on altering, 
effacing, and marring, promising and delaying its completion till 
it had become a subject he could hardly bear to allude to, or to 
hear mentioned by others ; his sensitiveness on this one point did 
at last almost verge on insanity. I heard various reasons assigned 
for this ; one was, that an execution had been levied on the work, 
which had excited in the painter's mind so deep a feeling of dis- 
couragement and disgust, that he would not afterwards touch it ; 
the other reason given was, that the leading idea of the picture, 
that of making the light radiate from the supernatural hand ; had 
been anticipated by Martin in his " Belshazzar's Feast." At the 
period of my visit to Allston, I saw this fatal picture rolled up in 
a corner of the apartment, and scarcely dared to look that way. 
On his easel lay a sketch of two sisters, life-size, the figure and 
attitude of one of them borrowed or adapted from " Titian's 
Daughter." The two heads in contrast, one dark, the other fair ; 
one gay, coquettish, the other thoughtful ; the whole admirable as 
a piece of color and expression. But I was most struck by two 
beginnings ; one a Dance of Fairies on the Sea-shore, from the 
Midsummer Night's Dream, exquisitely poetical. The other left 

doubt aware, is the case with some artists. On the contrary, I hold it as a 
duty freely to communicate all that I know to every artist who thinks it 
worth the asking. To the younger artists especially, who come to me for 
advice, I am in the habit of showing my pictures in their various stages, 
in order to illustrate the principles on which I proceed. The reason I 
assigned for not showing what I was immediately engaged on, that it threw 
cold water upon me, was the true one ; I must beg her not to say that I 
have written anything on my art, for it troubles me to have the public ex- 
pect anything of me. I feel as if they were looking over my shoulder. I 
may not live to complete what I have begun, and it is better that they 
should not have it in their power to reproach my memory for any disap- 
pointment they might choose to feign or feel." He was probably shrinking 
under some reproach on account of the ill-fated Belshazzar, when he wrote 
the above. 



WASHINGTON ALLSTON. 117 

a still greater — an ineffaceable impression on my mind. It was 
a sea-piece — a thunder-storm retiring, and a frigate bending to 
the gale ; it was merely a sketch in white chalk upon a red 
ground, and about five feet high, as nearly as I can recollect, — 
not even the dead coloring was laid on ; I never saw such an 
effect produced by such a vehicle, and had not mine own eyes 
seen it, I could not have conceived or believed it to be possible. 
There was absolute motion in the clouds and waves — all the 
poetry, all the tumult of the tempest were there ! — and I repeat, 
it was a sketch in white chalk — not even a shadow ! Around the 
walls of his room were scratched a variety of sentences, some on 
fragments of paper stuck up with a wafer or pin, — some on the 
wall itself. They were to serve, he said, as " texts for reflection 
before he began his day's work." One or two of these fixed my 
attention ; became the subject of discussion and conversation ; 
and at length he allowed a mutual friend to copy them for me — 
with the express permission to make any use of them I thought 
proper ; and thus sanctioned, I do not hesitate to subjoin a few of 
them. In the absence of his pictures, and until a fuller exposi- 
tion of his mind be placed before us by his biographer, they will 
better illustrate the character and genius of this remarkable man 
than anything that can be said of him. 



1. " The painter who is content with the praise of the world in 
respect to what does not satisfy himself, is not an artist, but an 
artisan ; for though his reward be only praise, his pay is that of 
a mechanic for his time, and not for his art." 

2. " He that seeks popularity in art closes the door on his own 
genius : as he must needs paint for other minds, and not for his 
own." 

3. " Reputation is but a synonyme of popularity : dependent 



118 WASHINGTON ALLSTON. 



on suffrage, to be increased or diminished at the will of the voters. 
It is the creature, so to speak, of its particular age, or rather of a 
particular state of society ; consequently, dying with that which 
sustained it. Hence we can scarcely go over a page of history, 
that we do not, as in a churchyard, tread upon some buried repu- 
tation. But fame cannot be voted down, having its immediate 
foundation in the essential. It is the eternal shadow of excellence, 
from which it can never be separated, nor is it ever made visible 
but in the light of an intellect kindred with that of its author. It 
is that light by which the shadow is projected, that is seen of the 
multitude, to be wondered at and reverenced, even while so little 
comprehended as to be often confounded with the substance — 
the substance being admitted from the shadow, as a matter of 
faith. It is the economy of Providence to provide such lights : 
like rising and setting stars, they follow each other through suc- 
cessive ages : and thus the monumental form of Genius stands 
for ever relieved against its own imperishable glory." 

4. All excellence of every kind is but variety of truth. If we 
wish, then, for something beyond the true, we wish for that which 
is false. According to this test how little truth is there in art ! 
Little indeed ! but how much is that little to him who feels it ! 

5. Fame* does not depend on the will of any man, but reputa- 

* In transcribing this aphorism, I am reminded of a noble passage in one 
of Joanna Baillie's poems. How many such passages are scattered through 
her works, which have been quoted, and applied, and familiarized to ear 
and memory for forty years past — until we almost forget to whom we owe 
them ! 

0, who shall lightly say that fame 
Is nothing but an empty name, 
Whilst in that sound there is a charm, 
The nerves to hr ce, the heart to warm ; 



WASHINGTON ALLSTON. 119 

tion may be given or taken away : for Fame is the sympathy of 
kindred intellects, and sympathy is not a subject of willing : while 
Reputation, having its source in the popular voice, is a sentence 
which may either be uttered or suppressed at pleasure. Repu- 
tation being essentially contemporaneous, is always at the mercy 
of the Envious and the Ignorant. But Fame, whose very birth 
is posthumous, and which is only known to exist oy the echo of its 
footsteps through congenial minds, can neither be increased nor 
diminished by any degree of wilfulness. 

6. What light is in the natural world, such is fame in the in- 
tellectual : both requiring an atmosphere in order to become per. 
ceptible. Hence the fame of Michael Angelo is, to some minds, 
a nonentity ; even as the sun itself would be invisible in vacuo. 

7. Fame has no necessary conjunction with praise : it may 

As, thinking of the mighty dead, 
The young from slothful couch will start, 
And vow, with lifted hands outspread, 
Like them to act a noble part ? 

O, who shall lightly say that fame 
Is nothing but an empty name, 
When, but for those our mighty dead, 
Jill ages past a blank would be, 
Sunk in oblivion's murky bed — 
A desert bare — a shipless sea ? 
They are the distant objects seen, 
The lofty marks of what hath been. 



0, who shall lightly say that fame 
Is nothing but an empty name, 
When memory of the mighty dead 
To earth-worn pilgrims' wistful eye 
The brightest rays of cheering shed 
That point to immortality ! 



120 WASHINGTON ALLSTON. 

exist without the breath of a word : it is a recognition of excellence 
which must be felt, but need not be spoken. Even the envious 
must feel it : feel it, and hate it in silence. 

8. I cannot believe, that any man who deserved fame, ever 
labored for it : that is, directly. For as fame is but the contingent 
of excellence, it would be like an attempt to project a shadow, 
before its substance was obtained. Many, however, have so 
fancied : " I write and paint for fame," has often been repeated : 
it should have been, " I write, I paint for reputation." All 
anxiety, therefore, about fame, should be placed to the account of 
reputation. 

9. A man may be pretty sure that he has not attained excellence, 
when it is not all in all to him. Nay, I may add, that if he looks 
beyond it, he has not reached it. This is not the less true for 
being good Irish. 

10. An original mind is rarely understood until it has been 
refected from some half-dozen congenial with it : so averse are 
men to admitting the true in an unusual form : whilst any novelty, 
however fantastic, however false, is greedily swallowed. Nor is 
this to be wondered at ; for all truth demands a response, and few 
people care to think, yet they must have something to supply the 
place of thought. Every mind would appear original, if every 
man had the power of projecting his own into the mind of others. 

11. All effort at originality must end either in the quaint or 
the monstrous. For no man knows himself as an original : he 
can only believe it on the report of others to whom he is made 
known, as he is by the projecting power before spoken of. 

12. There ^s an essential meanness in the wish to get the better 
of any one. The onty competition worthy of a wise man, is with 
himself. 



WASHINGTON ALLSTON. 121 



13. Reverence is an ennobling sentiment ; it is felt to be 
degrading only by the vulgar mind, which would escape the 
sense of its own littleness, by elevating itself into the antagonist 
to what is above it. 

14. He that has no pleasure in looking up, is not fit to look 
down ; of such minds are the mannerists in art ; and in the world, 
the tyrants of all sorts. 

15. The phrenologists are right in putting the organ of self- 
love in the back part of the head. It being there that a vain man 
carries his light ; the consequence is that every object he ap- 
proaches becomes obscure by his own shadow. 

16. A witch's skiff cannot more easily sail in the teeth of the 
wind, than the human eye can lie against fact : but the truth will 
often quiver through lips with a lie upon them. 

17. It is a hard matter for a man to lie all over, Nature having 
provided king's evidence in almost every member. The hand 
will sometimes act as a vane, to show which way the wind blows, 
when every feature is set the other way : the knees smite together 
and sound the alarm of fear under a fierce countenance : the legs 
shake with anger, when all above is calm.* 

18. Make no man your idol ! For the best man must have 

* An eminent lawyer, who is accustomed to cross-examine witnesses, 
once told me, that in cases tinder his scrutiny where he has known the 
words and oaths to have come forth glibly, while the whole face and form 
seemed converted into one impenetrable and steadfast mask, he has detected 
falsehood in a trembling of the muscle underneath the eye ; and that the 
perception of it has put him on the scent again, when he had thought him- 
self hopelessly at fault ; so true it is, that a man (e cannot lie all over." 

1 



122 WASHINGTON ALLSTON. 

faults, and his faults will usually become yours, in addition to 
your own. This is as true in art, as in morals. 

19. The Devil's heartiest laugh, is at a detracting witticism. 
Hence the phrase, " devilish good," has sometimes a literal 
meaning. 

20. There is one thing which no man, however generously 
disposed, can give, but which every one, however poor, is bound 
to pay. This is Praise. He cannot give it, because it is not his 
own ; since what is dependent for its very existence on something 
in another, can never become to him a possession ; nor can he 
justly withhold it, when the presence of merit claims it as a con- 
sequence. As praise, then, cannot be made a gift, so, neither, 
when not his due, can any man receive it ; he may think he does, 
but he receives only words ; for desert being the essential con- 
dition of praise, there can be no reality in the one without the 
other. This is no fanciful statement : for though praise may be 
withheld by the ignorant or envious, it cannot be but that, in the 
course of time, an existing merit will, on some one, produce its 
effects ; inasmuch as the existence of any cause without its effect, 
is an impossibility. A fearful truth lies at the bottom of this, an 
irreversible justice for the weal or woe of him who confirms or 
violates it. 



After this first introduction to Allston, I spent two whole morn- 
ings at Boston, hunting out his pictures, wherever they were to be 
found. At this distance of time, I will not trust to memory, but 
mention only those of which I have a memorandum, — of which 
the description, and the impression they left on my own mind, 
were noted on the spot. 

" Rosalie Listening to Music." The figure of a young girl, 
life-size' and three-quarters. She has been reading. The hand 



WASHINGTON ALLSTON. 123 



which holds the book has dropped : the other is pressed on her 
bosom. The head a little raised. Rapt, yet melancholy atten- 
tion in the opening eyes and parted lips. The coloring deep, 
delicate, rich. 

When I first saw this picture, in the drawingroom of Mr. 
Appleton, of Boston , I had never seen Allston — did not even 
recollect his name. It at once so captivated my attention, that I 
could not take my eyes from it — even though one who might well 
have sat for a Rosalie was at my side. I thought I had never 
beheld such a countenance, except in some of the female heads of 
Titian or Palma. Yet the face was not what would be termed 
beautiful; and oh, how far from the sentimental, ringletted pret- 
tiness of our fashionable painters ! 

When I afterwards asked Mr. Allston whether his poem of 
" Rosalie" had suggested the picture, or the picture the stanzas, 
he replied, that, " as well as he could recollect, the conception of 
the poem and of the picture had been simultaneous in his mind. 55 
He received for this picture 1,200 dollars, about £250. 

" Miriam Singing her Song of Triumph. 5 ' Figure three- 
quarters, extremely fine, especially in color ; perhaps too much 
of solemn melancholy and tenderness in the expression, — in the 
mouth particularly ; yet there may be a propriety in this concep- 
tion of the character. In the possession of Mr. Sears, of Boston. 

" A Roman Lady Reading. 55 Figure three-quarters. The 
same kind of beauty as the picture of Rosalie ; a head and 
countenance with something finer than beauty ; a contemplative 
grandeur and simplicity in the attitude, the hands very elegant 
and characteristic, and admirably drawn ; altogether a noble 
painting ! In the possession of Mr. D wight, of Boston. 

" Jeremiah Dictating to the Scribe his Prophecy of the De- 



124 WASHINGTON ALLSTON. 

struction of Jerusalem." Two figures, life-size ; a grand com- 
position, but the canvass seemed to me to want height, which 
took away from the general effect. The prophet seated, with 
flowing beard, and wide eyes glaring on the future : the head of 
the scribe, looking up and struck with a kind of horror, finer 
still. Coloring admirable, rich and deep and clear; olive and 
purple tints predominating. There is a jar on the left, about a 
foot and a half high, painted with such a finish of touch and tone, 
such illusive relief, as to cheat the sense, — and yet it is not ob- 
trusive. In the possession of Mrs. Gibbs. I have reason to re- 
member this picture ; for, while looking at it, I was leaning on 
the arm of Dr. Channing. He afterwards told me, that when 
the picture was exhibited, the water-jar excited far more wonder 
and admiration than the prophet ; and that a countryman, after 
contemplating the picture for a considerable time, turned away, 
exclaiming, " Well ! he was a 'cute man that made that jar !" 
The merely imitative always strikes the vulgar mind. 

" Beatrice " — Dante's, not Shakspeare's — Figure three-quar- 
ters — the same kind of merit as the " Rosalie " and the " Roman 
Lady." This most lovely picture struck me more the second 
time I saw it than the first ; the hand holding the cross, painted 
with exceeding truth and delicacy. In the possession of Mr. 
Elliot, mayor of Boston. 

" Lorenzo and Jessica," a small picture. The two figures 
seated on a bank in front, her hand lies in his ; I never saw any- 
thing better felt than the action and expression of those hands ! — 
one could see they were thrilling to the finger ends. The dark 
purple sky above ; the last gleam of daylight along the horizon 
— no moon. In the possession of Mr. Jackson, of Boston. For 
this exquisite little picture Allston received 600 dollars. 

" The Evening Hymn." A young girl seated amid ruins. 



WASHINGTON ALLSTON. 125 

She is on a bank, and her feet hang over a subterranean arch, 
within which, in the deep shadow, is dimly descried the fragment 
of a huge torso ; she is singing her vesper hymn to the Virgin ; 
the expression of devotion and tenderness in the head of the girl, 
and of deep repose in the whole conception, very beautiful : 
there is a gleam of golden sunset thrown across the foreground 
of the picture, which has an extraordinary effect. In the pos- 
session of Mr. Dutton. 

" Saul and the Witch of Endor," beautifully painted, but I 
did not like the conception ; in this instance, the genius of Salva- 
tor had rebuked and overpowered that of Allston. In the posses- 
sion of Colonel Perkins, of Boston. 

At Boston I saw, likewise, several fine landscapes, some of 
Italian and some of American scenery. 

At New York. " Rebecca at the Well." In the possession 
of M. Van Schaick. 

At Philadelphia. "The Dead Man Restored to Life on 
Touching the Bones of the Prophet Elisha" — (2 Kings xiii. 20). 
The scene is the interior of a mountain cavern, into which the 
dead man has been let down by two slaves, one of whom is at 
the head, the other at the feet of the body ; other figures above ; 
life-size. This picture has some magnificent points, and much 
general grandeur, without anything exaggerated or intrusive, 
which is the fine characteristic of Allston's compositions (those I 
have seen at least). The best part of the picture is the dead 
man extended in front, in whose form and expression the sickly 
dawn of returning life is very admirable and fearful. The 
drawing in the feet and hands extremely fine. The bones of the 
prophet are just revealed behind, in a sort of faint phosphoric 
light emitted by them. Several figures above in the back-ground, 



126 WASHINGTON ALLSTON. 

in various attitudes of horror, fear, amazement. I suppose the 
female figure fainting to be the wife or mother of the man. The 
picture is 13 feet by 11. 

I heard much of a picture I did not see — " Spalatro's Vision 
of the Bloody Hand," from Mrs. Radcliffe's " Italian." It is now 
in the possession of Mr. Ball, of Charleston. 

Thus far the written memoranda at the time. I saw several 
other pictures, of which there was not time to note any particular 
description, but all bearing more or less the impress of mind, of 
power, and of grace. 

When I heard of Allston's death it was not with regret or pain, 
but rather with a start, a shudder, as when a light, which, though 
distant, is yet present, is suddenly withdrawn. It seemed to me, 
that in him America had lost her third great man. What Wash- 
ington was as a statesman, Channing as a moralist, — that was 
Allston as an artist. 



V. 
"WOMAN'S MISSION," 

AND 

WOMAN'S POSITION 



Hommes ! vous ne savez pas 
Tout, vous connaissez peu ce qui convient aux ames, 
Que faire des enfans ni que faive des femmes. 

Victor Hugo. 



WOMAN'S MISSION, &c. 129 



" WOMAN'S MISSION," AND WOMAN'S POSITION. 

There was once a Spanish lady, a certain Donna Maria d'Esco- 
bar, living at Lima, who had a few grains of wheat, which she 
had brought from Estramadura. She planted them in her gar- 
den, and of the slender harvest she distributed to others, until 
that which had been counted in grains was counted in sheaves ; 
and that which had been counted in sheaves was counted in 
fields ; and thence came all the corn which is now found in 
Peru. 

This anecdote — it is told, I think, by Southey — made a strong 
impression on my fancy many years ago, and it recurs to me 
often when I feel discouraged at the slow dissemination of the 
most precious, the most obvious truths. The hope that one so 
powerless as myself could ever assist in popularizing any great 
truth, or help to convert the unfamiliar, the unpalatable, into the 
common food of daily life, that has seemed like vanity ; — but then 
I have thought "no, that word 'vanity' shall not frighten me." 
Wisely said the famous Thinker of old, that " there is oftentimes 
as great vanity in retiring and withdrawing men's conceits from 
the world as in publishing them ;" and extreme vanity does 
sometimes borrow the garb of an ultra- modesty. When I see 
people haunted by the idea of self", afraid to speak lest they 
should not be listened to ; spreading their hands before their faces, 
lest they meet the reflection of it in every other face — as if the 
wide world were to them only a French drawing-room, panelled 
with looking-glasses ; always fussily putting this obtrusive self 
behind them, or dragging over it a scanty drapery of conscious- 
7* 



130 WOMAN'S MISSION. 



ness — miscalled modesty ; always on the defence against com- 
pliment, or mistaking sympathy for compliment, which is as great 
an error, and a far more vulgar error than that of mistaking 
flattery for sympathy ; when I have seen this — and how often I 
have seen it allied with power and talent ! — I have been inclined 
to attribute it to immaturity of character — to a sort of childish- 
ness ; or to what is worse, a want of innate integrity and sim- 
plicity. To some minds, fame is like an intoxicating cup put to 
the lips — he does well to turn away from it who fears it will turn 
his head ; but to others, it is " love disguised," — the love that 
answers love in its widest, most exalted sense. It seems to me 
that, instead of stopping to calculate the little or the much we 
can do, we should all, according to the diversity of the gifts 
which God has bestowed, bring the best that is in us, and lay it 
a reverend offering on the altar of humanity, to burn and en- 
lighten ; or, if that may not be, at least to rise in incense to 
heaven. So taught the Great Teacher ; — so will the pure in 
heart and the unselfish do ; and will not heed, though they who 
can bring nothing, or will bring nothing, unless they can blaze 
like a beacon — call out " vanity !" 

We live in a season of fermentation, which some deprecate as 
change — others hail as progress ; but those who venture as they 
walk on their path through life to scatter a few seeds by the way- 
side in faith and in charity, may at least cherish a hope that, 
instead of being trampled down, or withered up, or choked among 
thorns, they will have a chance of life at least, and of bringing 
forth fruit, little or mucfi, in due season : for the earth, even by 
the way-sides of common life, is no longer dry and barren and stony- 
hard, but green with promise — grateful for culture ; — and we are 
at length beginning to feel that all the blood and tears by which 
it has been silently watered have not been shed in vain. 

People call out about the practical, as if to be practical was 



AND WOMAN'S POSITION. 131 

the only good thing. If with your right hand you touch upon an 
evil, and do not bring the remedy in your left, that is unpractical ; 
to believe in anything one does not see, that is unpractical ; to 
sneer at arguments and yield to facts, that is practical. As those 
who watch in a factory the revolutions of a thousand wheels, the 
flying spindles, the huge iron powers grinding out fabrics of steel, 
and fabrics of muslin, never think of the living stream, softly 
trickling from the hill side, without which, whether it raise the 
piston, or turn the wheel, that vast machinery of complex forces, 
with all their complex results, had remained inert, useless, dead ; 
— so no one seems to feel that beyond fact, argument, practice, 
theory, — lies a still power, which God and nature hold apart for 
silent, sacred uses. 

There is much need of this feeling — of all the faith, courage, 
and comfort it can bring, when, with a sense deep and humble 
of my own helplessness in all practical things, I yet would ven- 
ture to stir the sources of thought and feeling in those who have 
power to strive for the right, not in fugitive words, but in effective 
act and example. 

After all that has been written, sung, and said of woman, one 
has the perception that neither in prose nor in verse has she ever 
appeared as the laborer. All at once people are startled by being 
obliged to consider her under this point of view, and no other. 
It is now about three years since the condition and employments 
of the women and children in our manufacturing towns and in 
our agricultural districts, were made the subjects of two commis- 
sions of inquiry, and elicited two elaborate reports. These were 
published by order of the Government ; the revelations they con- 
tained were noticed by newspapers, and afforded subjects for 
whole columns of revolting and exciting details; for eloquent 
paragraphs, full of wonder and indignation, and much pathetic 
verbiage written and spoken. When all that could be made 



]32 WOMAN'S MISSION, 



topics for the day was thus disposed of, the subject dropped ; — I 
can well believe, — and some late measures of Government inspire 
the hope, — that it has not been forgotten ; but it appeared to me 
that there was matter for deep, deep thought, not merely in the 
state of society revealed by these reports, but in the state of 
opinion revealed by the comments on these reports. As usual, 
there was a large outlay of pity, of indignation — but, as usual, 
there was no real sympathy, no perception of justice or injustice 
on the broad scale. In the midst of all the discussions, lamenta- 
tions and expostulations with which the press teemed on this occa- 
sion, — in the midst of all this exposure of wrongs inflicted and 
endured — it was curious to see how completely custom had 
blinded, hardened the otherwise acute mind and feeling heart to 
the great unacknowledged wrong which lies at the foundation 
of all. Until on this point the conscience of society is awakened, 
and opinion in some degree modified, it is in vain to admit the 
evil results ; in vain to discuss remedies ; in vain to legislate. 
Man's legislation for woman has hitherto been like English legis- 
lation for Ireland : it has been without sympathy ; without the 
recognition of equality ; without a comprehension of certain in- 
nate differences, physical and moral, and therefore inadequate, 
useless, often unjust, and not seldom cruel. 

To legislate for women as a part of the laboring community, 
our legislators must first understand what it is in our nature to 
desire ; what it is in our power to perform ; what it is in our 
duty to fulfil. Before you can do us right, you must do away 
with the wrong. 

And what is the source of this wrong ? It lies in the singular, 
unaccountable, and as it should seem, irreconcilable antagonism 
between the moral law, and the law of opinion. The press has 
lately teemed with works treating of the condition, the destiny, 
the duties of women.* It is perhaps a good sign that these publi- 

* I would refer particularly to two admirable little books which have 



AND WOMAN'S POSITION. 133 

cations have so multiplied, for it is a sign that attention is drawn 
to the subject : but as to the manner in which it is discussed — 
that is another thing. Some of these books are made up of trite 
common-places, and appear to have been written for the especial 
benefit of book societies, and seminaries for young ladies ; these 
are the most popular. Others are in a more enlarged spirit, and 
aim at a higher purpose ; these are the unpopular ; but the 
theme, however treated, is one of the themes of the day. And 
now open any one of these books, which has obtained a certain 
meed of approbation— nay, open any book whatever— prose or 
poetry — morals, physics, travels, history, — they tell us one and 
all that the chief distinction between savage and civilized life, 
between Heathendom and Christendom, lies in the treatment and 
the condition of the women ; that by the position of the women in 
the scale of society we estimate the degree of civilisation of that 
society ; that on her power to exercise her faculties and duties 
aright, depends the moral culture of the rising generation, — in 
other words, the progress of the species. All books — all argu- 
ments, all legislation, of which woman is the subject, declare as 
a first principle, and assume as an admitted fact, that in every 
class of Christian society there is what is called domestic life ; that 
this domestic life supposes as its primary element the presence, 
the cares, the devotion of woman. Her sphere is Home, her voca- 
tion the maternal ;— not meaning thereby the literal bringing forth 
of children, but the nourishing, cherishing and teaching of the 
young. In all the relations between the sexes, she is the refiner 
and the comforter of man. It is hers to keep alive all those purer, 
gentler, and more genial sympathies, — those refinements in 
morals, in sentiments, in manners, without which men, exposed 
to the rougher influences of e very-day life, and in the struggle 
with this selfish world, might degenerate (do degenerate— for the 

excited much attention, Miss Lewis's " Woman's Mission," and Mrs. 
Hugo Reid's "Plea for Women." 



134 WOMAN'S MISSION, 



case is not hypothetical) into mere brutes. Such is the beautiful 
theory of the woman's existence, preached to her, by moralists, 
sung to her by poets, till it has become the world's creed — and 
her own faith, even in the teeth of fact and experience ! Let man, 
the bread-winner, go abroad — let woman stay at home. Let her 
not be seen in the haunts of rude labor any more than in those 
of vicious pleasure : for is she not the mother ? — highest, holiest, 
dearest title to the respect and the tenderness of her " protector 
Man /" All this sounds so very trite, one is ashamed of the 
repetition. Who has ever questioned the least of these truths, or 
rather truisms ? No one ; — the only wonder is, that while they 
are accepted, promulgated, taught as indisputable, the real state 
of things is utterly at variance with them ; and they are but lying 
common-places at best. 

Our social system abounds with strange contradictions, in law, 
morals, government, religion ; but the greatest, the most absurd, 
the most cruel of all, is the anomalous condition of woman in this 
Christian land of ours. I call it anomalous, because it inculcates 
one thing as the rule of right, and decrees another as the law of 
necessity. " Woman's Mission," of which people can talk so 
well, and write so prettily, is incompatible with " Woman's Posi- 
tion," of which no one dares to think, much less to speak. 

The grand evil, the wrong which cries to Heaven, is the 
banishment of the woman from her home in childhood, girlhood, 
and wifehood. 

First, owing to the inadequacy of the parents' wages, the poor 
little female children are sent out at five, nay, at three years old, 
that by working for seven or eight hours a day, they may add one 
shilling to the amount of the weekly gains. I dare scarcely ad- 
vert to this part of the report of the Commissioners, or to the 
evidence relating to the maltreatment of infants, the thousands set 
to work before the age of nine, and at that age working ten or 



AND WOMAN'S POSITION. 135 

twelve hours a day.* We cry out about unnatural mothers ; but 
the mother must live, — to live she must work, and make her 
children work as soon as they can use their little hands, — no 
help for it ! — We may shudder and talk of the necessity of taking 
away the children to educate them ; but by what right will you 
take the food out of the mother's mouth, procurable by no other 
means than through her own and her children's perpetual toil ? 
What alternative do you leave her between this course of unna- 
tural cruelty, and absolute starvation ? These are questions to 
be asked and answered ; or our merciful reforms, and education 
systems, and ten hours' Bills, are like to be only new forms of 
injustice and oppression. People must eat, — and if, in extremity 
of want, "the pitiful mother hath sodden her own child," — she* 
may be supposed capable, when want, and vice, and ignorance, 
are combined, of dooming her child to premature toil, and all its 
horrid physical and moral results. 

The children — those who survive — grow up to girlhood ; as 
soon as possible they are emancipated, or rather, emancipate 
themselves, from the domestic control — such as it is — and work 
for their own maintenance. Those who have the choice, prefer 
the life of a factory girl to that of a household servant, — and they 
are not far wrong. They have comparative liberty, and work only 
at stated hours, but they thus acquire, with habits of independ- 
ence, habits of recklessness as regards others ; impatience of all 
quiet, orderly obligations; selfishness, and every kind of un- 
womanly fault. The Commissioners, in the fifth section of their 
report, thus sum up their view of the case : — " It appears that 
the education of the girls is even more neglected than that of the 

* As in the lace factories, where many children are employed from six 
to eight years old, and never see a bed, but lie down on the floor when their 
term of employment is over, and are permitted to sleep for two or three 
hours before they are again awakened to labor. See the debate on the 
Lace Factory Bill, May 20th, 1846. 



136 WOMAN'S MISSION, 



boys ; that the vast majority of the females are utterly ignorant ; 
that it is impossible to over-rate the evils which result from this 
deplorable ignorance. The medical practitioners of Birmingham 
point out the misery which ensues from the neglected condition 
of the women, — improvidence, absence of all comfort, abandon- 
ment of children, alienation of all affection in families, and drunk- 
enness on the part of the husband." 

A witness thus deposes : " My own experience tells me that the 
instruction of the females in the work of the house, in teaching 
them to produce cheerfulness and comfort at the fireside, would 
prevent a great amount of misery and crime. As a working 
man, and speaking from my own observation, female education is 
shamefully neglected ; I attach more importance to it than to 
anything else." This is the evidence of a mechanic. Not long 
ago an intelligent man of this class made in conversation with me 
a similar statement. " Ten years ago," said he, " there were no 
such girls as you see now in my native town — at least very few ; 
now they are in hundreds ; — girls who have no idea of anything 
in the world but working for just as much money as will buy a 
gown to their back ; girls without an idea of duty to God or man 
— without the sense of fear or shame." 

From among such as these, the men, debased as themselves, 
take to them wives ; for there has existed in the lower — that is, in 
the laboring classes — a necessity for marrying, such as the Mal- 
thusians have not dreamed of in their philosophy. " Jim !" said 
a nobleman, in my hearing, to a laborer who was ditching in his 
grounds, — a poor, pale, half idiotic looking object, — " I hear you 
have got married since I was down last ; what could have put 
such a thing into your head, you fool ? — Are you not ashamed ? 
— What can you expect, but that you and your children will be- 
come a burthen to the parish V 

" If you please, my lord," replied Jim, twirling a ragged hat 



AND WOMAN'S POSITION. 137 



on his thumb, " I was, as one may say, eaten up with varmint, 
and — I married a wife to keep me clean !" 

The plea was as unexpected as it was unanswerable. It seems, 
then, that among the agricultural laborers, a man still marries in 
the hope that his wife will " keep him clean ;" — can he have even 
this small hope in our manufacturing districts, where the female 
children are guiding bobbins, or making nails, from morning to 
night ? — or where the young girls can be described in such terms 
as these — " By constantly associating with depraved adults, they 
fall into all their ways, — drink, swear, fight, smoke, sing, and care 
for nobody " (of these characteristics, that care for nobody is the 
most unwomanish — the worst of all !) The Commissioner adds : — 
" The girls of some of our manufacturing districts are becoming 
similar to the female followers of an army ; wearing the garb of 
women, but actuated by the worst passions of men, in every riot 
and outbreak the women are the leaders and exciters of the young 
men to violence; their language is of the most horrid description. 
In short, while they are demoralized themselves, they demoralize 
all that comes within their reach. It has been said, that English- 
men would never exhibit one-hundredth part of the ferocity dis- 
played by the French in 1789, and during the reign of terror, 
even if a similar crisis could occur here ; — but it is difficult to say 
what the contagion of such examples, and such language, might 
effect." 

The unmarried girl, free, reckless, irresponsible, becomes in 
time the wife and the mother. What is the training that has 
fitted her for the working man's wife ? By the labor of her hands 
she adds, perhaps, a third to his weekly wages, while, by her 
carelessness and ignorance of all household duties, she wastes 
one-half of their united means ; or, by her insubordination and 
unwomanly habits, converts the home into a den of dirt, disquiet, 
misery. Even when well disposed, the disorderly habits of her 



138 WOMAN'S MISSION, 



childhood and youth leave her no chance but in a strength of 
character, and a combination of favorable influences, which are, 
at least, not common. " The girls, removed from their home, or 
from the school, to be employed in labor, are prevented from 
learning needle-work, and from acquiring those habits of cleanli- 
ness, neatness, and order, without which they cannot, when they 
grow up to womanhood, and have the charge of families of their 
own, economize their husbands' earnings, or give their homes 
any degree of comfort ; and this general want of the qualifica- 
tions of a housewife in the women of this class, is stated by 
clergymen, teachers, medical men, employers, and other wit- 
nesses, to be one great and universally prevailing cause of distress 
and crime among the working classes /" 

Yes ; here is the cause ; — but where is the remedy ? If to 
exist, to procure a pittance of food and decent clothing, a young 
woman must toil incessantly at some handicraft from five years 
old and upwards, where and how is she to learn needle-work, 
cookery, economy, cleanliness, and all " the arts of home ?" 
These things are not taught in Sunday-schools, nor in Dame- 
schools ; — and if they were, she has no time to learn them, nor 
opportunity to apply them, being learned ; — she must toil in 
womanhood as in childhood and girlhood ; — always toil — toil — 
unremitting, heart-sickening, soul-and-body-wearing toil ! What 
is the use of instituting a system of education if you continue a 
state of things in which that education is useless ? — which ren- 
ders it impossible for the woman to practise what the child has 
learned ? — in which incessant labor is the sole condition of exist- 
ence ? The women of these classes have no home,— can we won- 
der that they have no morals ? 

In the agricultural districts the woman is equally exposed, by 
a hard necessity, to these unwomanizing, unhomely influences. 
True, there is this to be said, that out-of-door labor has not the 



AND WOMAN'S POSITION. 139 

same deteriorating effects, moral or physical, that are imputed to 
sedentary occupation in a confined atmosphere, as in button- 
making, nail-making, lace-making, straw-plaiting, &c. In the 
fields, the genial influences of external nature are felt in spite of 
toil and misery : air, light, sunshine, movement of the limbs are 
not in vain ; the female children are not exposed to such work at 
a very early age, because bodily strength is here necessary ; they 
do not go out, as it is called, till about eleven or twelve years old ; 
— this is something : and, on the whole, it seems proved that agri- 
cultural labor, even of the roughest kind, when not absolutely 
immoderate, is conducive to the health ; that it gives a firmness 
to the fibre, a soundness to the muscles, a regularity to the func- 
tions, and an equal tone to the spirits, not to be found in women 
of the same class in manufacturing towns; — not even in the 
women-servants, with far lighter work and better food. On the 
other hand, it is impossible that the degree of field-labor can be 
exactly calculated and duly proportioned. It is mostly excessive ; 
and too often the advantages I have alluded to are counter- 
balanced by the evils of over-work. The feminine constitution, 
even when hardened from infancy, cannot without injury sustain 
great and unremitting physical labor and exposure to cold and 
wet. The effects are seen in premature old age, — rheumatism, 
consumption, and, what is perhaps worse, in a coarseness of na- 
ture and a roughness of deportment revolting in a female ; in the 
sacrifice of the home — of all the comforts of home, as regards the 
husband and children ; and all the gentler charities, the softening 
influence of home duties as regards herself.* Women, who, in 
their girlhood, are accustomed to perpetual field-work as the sole 
means of existence, know nothing of home discipline, and possess 

* " I have no hesitation in affirming that field-work for women, let it 
be overlooked as it may, is liable to great moral abuse ; that little over- 
looked, as it mostly is, it is one of the greatest sources of immorality that 
I know." — Report, p. 73. 



140 WOMAN'S MISSION, 



but few of those qualities which are the crowning graces of 
womanhood, and which were bestowed to soften and refine the 
rougher masculine nature. The whole frame is accustomed to 
action on too broad a scale for domestic life ; the eye becomes 
regardless of precision and cleanliness ; the habits — as in the 
factories — are undomestic, and unfavorable to personal subordina- 
tion ; all things that require frequent or constant attention are 
neglected. They are in the same condition as the women of the 
manufacturing districts as regards their ignorance of the com- 
monest things affecting the welfare and comforts of a family, as 
needle-work, cookery, and all that pertains to the decencies of home. 
So here, again, there is no home. A woman, thus employed, is 
absent from her cottage all day ; her children have been left to 
themselves ; the younger in the charge of the elder — perhaps a 
guardian of seven or eight years old. They are in a state of dirt 
and idleness, — tear their clothes, — waste their food, — fight, — fall 
into the fire. The poor mother returns at night ; she must not 
rest ; she must look after her neglected infants. Then comes the 
husband — tired, wet, hungry ; — finds that his wife ha*s arrived just 
before him, more weary than himself; she cannot attend to him ; 
— there is no fire, no comfort, no supper, no welcome, no " home :" 
— and he goes to the beer-shop !* 

" I believe," says one of the commissioners, who gives the most 
favorable view of this condition of the woman's life, — " I believe 
it would be much better for their husbands and children, if women 

* Report, p. 68. — " I think it a much better thing for mothers to be at 
home with their children ; they are much better taken care of, and things 
go on better. I have always left my children to themselves, and, God be 
praised ! nothing has happened to them, though I have thought it danger- 
ous : I have many a time come home and have thought it a mercy that no- 
thing has happened to them. It would be much better if mothers could 
be at home, but they must work. Bad accidents often happen." — Evi- 
dence of a laboring woman. See also pp. 5, 11 — 23, 26, 28, 65, 72, 104, 
150, 359. 



AND WOMAN'S POSITION. 141 

were not engaged in such employments, in certain respects ; but, 
on the other hand, the observation repeatedly made to me was, 
that their earnings are a benefit to their families, which cannot be 
dispensed with without creating a great deal of suffering ; — and, 
upon the fullest consideration, I believe that the earnings of a 
woman employed in the fields are an advantage which, in the 
present state of the agricultural population, outweighs any of the 
mischiefs arising from such employments."* That is to say, that 
such is the present state of the laborer in our free, rich, prosperous 
England, that the earning of three-and-sixpence a-week is of 
much more importance to him than the domestic services of his 
wife, her womanly qualities and habits, and the well-being of his 
children. All the morals and all the comforts, all the duties and 
charities of home, are not worth three-and-sixpence a-week ! 

But, leaving these classes, — in which a deficient education, 
habitual endurance, or an hereditary low organization, may be 
supposed to deaden the sense of suffering, — let us go a step high- 
er, to the classes immediately above them ; attorneys and apothe- 
caries, tradesmen and shopkeepers, bankers' and merchants' 
clerks, &c. In this class more than two-thirds of the women are 
now obliged to earn their bread. This is an obligation which the 
advance of civilisation, no less than the pressure of the times, 
has forced upon them ; an obligation of which womankind, in 
the long-run, will not have reason to complain. Meanwhile, it is 
not of her just share of hardship, in hard times, that the woman 
complains at present ; but she may well think it a peculiar hard- 
ship, a cruel mockery, that while such an obligation is laid upon 
her, and the necessity and the severity of the labor increases every 
day, her capabilities are limited by law — or custom, strong as 
law; or prejudice, stronger than either, — to one or two depart- 
ments, while in every other the door is shut against her. She 

* Report, p. 28. 



142 WOMAN'S MISSION, 



is educated lor one destiny, and another is inevitably before her. 
Her education instructs her to love and adorn her home — "the 
woman's proper sphere," — cultivates her affections, refines her 
sensibilities, gives her no higher aim but to please man, " her pro- 
tector;" — and allows her no other ambition than to become a 
good wife and mother. Thus prepared, or rather unprepared, 
her destiny sends her forth into the world to toil and endure as 
though she had nerves of iron ; — she must learn to protect her- 
self, or she is more likely to be the victim and prey of her " pro- 
tector, man," — than his helpmate and companion. She cannot 
soothe his toils ; for like him, she must toil ; to live she must 
work, — but, by working, can she live ? 

It ought to be no question whether those who are able and wil- 
ling to work can live by their work, — but here it is a question. 
In these middle classes, the opportunities afforded to men to gain 
a living, are, compared with those of the women, as ten to one ; 
yet the men tell us that the competition is so great, they find.it 
difficult to maintain themselves, — and to maintain a wife and 
children next to impossible. The increasing number of unmar- 
ried men with their reading clubs, mechanics' institutes — we will 
say nothing of taverns, theatres, and other places of social resort 
— argues, of course, an increasing number of unmarried females^ 
who not only have no opportunities of mutual improvement, and 
social recreation, but if they be " respectable " women, cannot 
even walk through the streets without being subject to the insults 
of men, also called and esteemed " respectable ;" and who are 
destined never to be either w T ives or mothers, though they have 
heard from their infancy that such, by the appointment of God, 
is their vocation in this world, and no other. Such may be their 
vocation, but such is not their destiny : no, they must go forth to 
labor ; to encounter on every side strange iron prejudices, adverse 
institutions formed and framed in a social state quite different from 
that which exists at present — a state in which the position of the 



AND WOMAN'S POSITION. 143 

women was altogether different from what it is now. One of the 
greatest moral writers of the clay has thus strikingly put thccase. 
" A woman from the uneducated classes, can get a subsistence 
by washing, and cooking, by milking cows, and going to service ; 
in some parts of the kingdom by working in a cotton mill, &c. 
But for an educated woman, a woman with the powers which 
God gave her, religiously improved, with a reason which lays life 
open before her, an understanding which surveys science as its 
appropriate task, and a conscience which would make every spe- 
cies of responsibility safe — for such a woman there is in all 
England no chance of subsistence, but by teaching — that almost 
ineffectual teaching which can never countervail the education 
of circumstances, and for which not one in a thousand is fit — or 
by being the feminine gender of the tailor and the hatter." — 
" There are departments of art and literature from which it is 
impossible to shut women out. These are not, however, to be re- 
garded as resources for bread. Besides, the number who suc- 
ceed in art and literature being necessarily small, it seems pretty 
certain that no great achievements in the domains of art can be 
looked for from either men or women who labor there to supply 
their lower wants, or for any other reason than the pure love of 
their work. While they toil in any one of the arts of expression, 
if they are not engrossed by some loftier meaning, the highest 
which they will end with expressing will be the need of bread."* 
This is most true. It ought not to be " the need of bread " which 
drives the woman to the artist life — yet how often is it so ! — And 
of the low intellectual and moral state of those unhappily driven 
to such resources, I will not here speak ; nor of the complex dif- 
ficulties and dangers and disgusts, that surround the woman en- 
dowed with those high and rare gifts which form the artist, and 
make her recoil from the profession of art, public or private, 
unless forced by the need of bread into a sphere of life which 

* Deerbrook, vol. ii. 



144 WOMAN'S MISSION, 



only her free choice can crown with dignity and true success. 
But these, it will be said, are the exceptions ; the artist life is the 
condition of the few ; while needlework and teaching the young, 
" the feminine gender of the tutor and the tailor," seem the natu- 
ral employments of the woman ; and whatever may be otherwise 
her gifts and powers, in harmony with all her instincts. More- 
over, she is willing to do or be anything which shall procure her 
a- decent subsistence; and save her from becoming a burthen to 
those already over-burthened ; so, driven by stern necessity from 
the home for which she was educated, she goes forth to struggle 
with the harsh destinies for which she was not educated. What 
shall she be? A governess? that is always the first thought; it 
is the only genteel profession open to her ; accordingly the com- 
petition is here so enormous, that the chances against her are a 
hundred to one, even supposing her qualified, which is seldom the 
case. Without entering here on the statistics of governesses (I 
shall have much to say on that subject further on), I will merely 
observe that in these educating days we do not pay governesses 
better nor estimate them more highly, but we require more of 
them. Many a young woman, who a few years ago would easily 
have obtained a situation as teacher, cannot do so now. And 
among. the causes of the ill health of the whole governess class, 
not the least is the deficient education which obliges them too 
often to learn the task they have to teach, and thus condemns 
them to a double exertion, accompanied by concealed anxiety — 
and doubts that wear the nerves, and exhaust the spirits. If her 
acquirements be beneath those demanded of the nursery teacher, 
she has one other resource, she can be a dressmaker. Every 
one remembers the sensation caused by that part of the Govern- 
ment report, which described the condition of milliners and dress- 
makers — the picture of hopeless suffering and quiet misery, de- 
rangement of health, loss of sight, and gradual extinction of the 
powers of youth and life, attendant on excessive and monotonous 



AND WOMAN'S POSITION. 145 



sedentary labor. It is admitted in the face of all this known suf- 
fering, that in this class of women also the competition is so great, 
as to leave a poor young woman but little chance of earning her 
bread : as long as the great " houses " can procure girls to work 
for eighteen hours out of twenty-four, or " sit up three nights in 
the week through the season," they can do without more hands. 
No room for her here ! — No, — though she should be ready for 
twelve or fifteen shillings a week to wear her eyes out, or work 
her fingers to the bone. What shall she do ? she can write a 
good hand, and is a quick ready accountant. She might be a 
clerk, — or a cashier, — or an assistant in a mercantile house. 
Such a thing is common in France, but here in England who 
would employ her ? Who would countenance such an innovation 
on all our English ideas of feminine propriety ? And as such it 
must be regarded as long as the woman is the licensed prey of 
the man, unprotected by opinion, or custom, or Christian charity. 
I have heard of women employed in writing and engrossing for 
attorneys, but this is scarcely an acknowledged means of exist- 
ence : they are employed secretly, and merely because they are 
paid much less than men. What then remains 1 the young wo- 
man tenderly brought up, who is discouraged by the difficulties, 
and, I will add, by the dangers and insults to which her position 
exposes her, may shrink back to her poor home if she have one : 
— if it be a kind home, to feel acutely her own helplessness ; if 
it be an unkind home, to be taunted with cruel words, till no 
longer able to endure the bitter dependence, she goes forth into 
the streets, or shrinks into a lonely garret to make shirts for six- 
pence a piece — "finding her own thread." Is the picture exag- 
gerated ? Some may think so ; but those who have looked into 
the real state of things, know that it is so far from being over- 
stated, that it rather falls short of the truth. Those who admit 
the truth, acknowledge the wrong, — but it remains unremedied, 
and " no man layeth it to heart." 
8 



146 WOMAN'S MISSION, 



When the evidence relating to the condition of the girls em- 
ployed in dressmaking and needlework was first made public, 
what a topic for newspaper sympathy ! What indignation against 
selfish employers, thoughtless women of fashion, and the luxury 
of dress ! Yet I do not see that a reform in gowns and caps 
would necessarily cure, or even ameliorate, the evil. If, when 
thus shocked and startled, our fine ladies had been suddenly 
seized with a fit of economy and " late remorse," the immediate 
result would have been, that hundreds of poor girls who now 
derive a wretched existence from their luxury, would have been 
thrown out of work — would have had no existence at all, or one 
still more wretched, — more degraded — adding infamy to misery. 
Are we prepared for this ? Have we any other alternative to 
offer them ? " The Bridge of Sighs," perhaps, — I know no 
other. 

Education is the panacea offered for these crying evils — edu- 
cation : and truly, if we could swallow it at once as we do a bit 
of bread, it might do some good ; but it will be ten years, at least, 
before the best system of education can be made available, — 
twenty, before it can be seen in its effects ; meantime parties 
dispute as to what that education shall be ; who is to be the 
schoolmaster in chief — the Church or the State ? — and while this 
dispute is going on, it is publicly avowed in the council of our 
legislators, that " a generation is growing up around us more 
miserable, more debased than any previous generation for the 
last three hundred years ;" and can we wonder at it when the 
mothers of the race are miserable, over- worked ; and from the 
difficulties which attend the gaining of a subsistence and the 
dearness of food, are sold to occupations unfitted to their sex, 
which deteriorate body and soul, and which render the care and 
nurture of their children a secondary matter ? 

The condition of the woman in savage life has been considered 



AND WOMAN'S POSITION. 147 

as peculiarly degraded. I have seen those women — lived among 
them. Individually, they never appeared to me so pitiable as the 
women of civilized life. In those communities the degradation 
is positive, not relative ; all fare alike — the lot of one is the lot 
of all ; and the oppressed woman is not in fact more degraded 
than the brute man. Unfeminine drudgery — every cruelty that 
the stronger can inflict on the weaker, 

" The pressure of an alien tyranny, 

With its dynastic reasons of larger bones 
And stronger sinews," 

seems the inevitable, the natural destiny of all women in a bar- 
barous state. In civilized life, it is the fate of a large portion ; and 
those who are exempted from it are so, apparently, by no claims 
of sex, no security afforded by law, but merely by accident of 
position. Then again among the Orientals, where the men are 
without rights, the women can have none : relatively to the so- 
cial condition of the men, who are themselves slaves, the women 
seem in their natural position as the slaves of slaves. It is'in the 
most civilized among Christian nations that the woman is shocked 
and distracted by the contradictions in her destiny. In our Eng- 
land the laboring woman of the lower classes, were she able to 
make the comparison, would rather be a savage, or the slave of a 
Turk, than be what she is : but go one step higher, and every 
feeling and reflecting woman sees that, in the capability of the 
few to rise above the rest, there is hope for all ; and in the midst 
of suffering, and in the struggle with a discordant social position, 
she blesses heaven that she is an Englishwoman — that she lives 
under a dispensation which, at least, professes to equalize the 
sexes, and under a law which lays upon her the duties and re- 
sponsibilities of a free subject, though as yet it refuses her some 
of the dearest rights of freedom : — these will come in time.* 

* I heard it said by the magistrate of the principal West-end office in 



14S WOMAN'S MISSION, 



But returning once more to the especial purpose of this essay, 
let me ask one question of those best able to solve it. Let me 
ask what is the reason that, in legislating in behalf of women (as 
in the Custody of Infants' Bill), or in originating any measures, 
private or public, of which the employment or education of wo- 
men is the object, such strange, such insurmountable obstacles 
occur as seem to daunt the most generous and zealous of their 
public advocates, and defeat all the aims of private benevolence, 
however well and wisely considered ? It seems to argue some- 
thing rotten at the very foundation of our social institutions, that 
this should be so invariably the case. 

The importance of the education of the women, the dreadful 
evils which spring out of their neglected and perverted state, are 
pointed out and acknowledged. But how will our legislators, in 
framing a national system of education, meet and dispose of the 
strange contradictions which arise out of the social position of the 
woman ? — a law of nature, which renders her necessary to the 
home; — a law of opinion, — a license of custom, — which renders 
the protection of a home necessary to her ; and a state of things 
which throws her into the midst of the world, to struggle and toil 
for her daily bread ? 

London, that the thing which had most astonished him on the bench was, 
the inconceivable amount of ill-treatment and brutality which the wretch- 
ed women of the lower classes endure before they appeal to the law for 
protection : they have a feeling that the law is against them, as women ; 
that they have no claim to equal justice ; and — " what they endure under 
this impression, would not," he said, " be believed or conceived." On 
mentioning this statement to the magistrate at the head of one of the prin- 
cipal offices in the City, he strongly, — even with emotion, — corroborated 
it from his own experience. In May, 1846, one of the eloquent leading 
articles in " The Times," called forth by some signal exposure of domes- 
tic oppression, advocated the necessity of extending legal protection in 
some more definite form to the women of the lower classes. 



AND WOMAN'S POSITION. 149 

It appears by the whole tenor of these official reports, that all 
attempts to legislate or interpose in favor of women interfere with 
masculine privileges, with rights of husbands or of fathers, and 
are fraught with difficulties and dangers, — no one ventures to 
state openly of what particular nature or even to give them a 
definite shape in his own fancy ; but every one feels them, and 
every one shrinks from them. 

If a woman presume to question such rights and privileges, or 
even allude, in the most distant manner, to the horrors and moral 
disorders to which they give rise, it is " unfeminine," — it shocks 
the nice delicacy of "her protector, man;" and yet the assump- 
tion that the woman consults the decorum of her sex by appear- 
ing not to know that which she does know — that which all the 
world knows that she knows — the common and oftentimes most 
fatal assumption, that women have " nothing to do " with certain 
questions, lying deep at the very root and core of society, has false- 
hood on the very face of it ; but no one dares to look it in the 
face, and show its heartlessness — its hatefulness ! If woman has 
nothing to do with what concerns the fidelity of her husband, the 
health and virtue of her sons, the peace and honor of her daugh- 
ters, — with what, in heaven's name, has she to do ? 

Then we have institutions for the reform and education of 
juvenile delinquents and outcasts — boys of course. When the 
same attempt was made in behalf of poor little girls, it failed : 
after struggling for a few years with difficulties such as no zeal 
could surmount, it was given up. It was gravely said, that when 
a boy of twelve or fourteen had been exposed to bad influences, 
the case was far from hopeless ; but that a girl early depraved, 
was depraved for ever. I, for one, absolutely deny this. It is a 
matter of opinion for which there is no necessity in nature. It is 
the prejudice which makes the necessity ; and I regard it as a 



150 WOMAN'S MISSION, 



most cruel and besotted prejudice, that which shuts the gates of 
mercy against the wronged and the innocent, and which con- 
demns these poor little forlorn creatures, most of whom have been 
injured without consciousness or will on their own part, to live 
and die in sin, to rot and perish, body and soul. There are things 
done and suffered in the midst of society, even now, on which our 
posterity, a generation or two hence, will look with as much horror 
as we now look back on the wholesale burning of witches, which 
were the common-places of two centuries ago. 

It is now about four years since the government opened a 
female School of Design at Somerset-house. In a state of things, 
such as I have here ventured to touch upon, it seemed no mighty 
effort of generosity, that the advantages already given to about 
two hundred boys should be extended to twenty or thirty girls ; 
— that a poor young woman should be enabled to obtain, at a 
small cost, the power of using a pencil, drawing ornaments, 
inventing patterns ; thus adding one more to their limited means 
of existence ; and one particularly calculated for the quick fancy, 
the elegant taste, and the neat ready hand of a woman. 

The first expression of opinion which this just and benevolent 
project elicited, was a petition drawn up by the artists employed 
in wood engraving, praying that the women might not be taught, 
at the expense of the government, arts which would " interfere 
with the employment of men, and take the bread out of their 
mouths;" and further "tempt the women to forego those house- 
hold employments more befitting their sex." (No petitions were 
presented on the part of the men against young women let out in 
gangs to break stones and dig potatoes.*) 

As to this petition of which I speak, it was to my knowledge 
handed about for signature, and though, of course, some just and 

* Vide Report on the Condition of the Women and Children in the 
Agricultural Districts, p. 220. 



AND WOMAN'S POSITION. 151 

generous-hearted men were found who absolutely refused to sign 
it, it was numerously signed ; whether it was ever presented I do 
not know — but this was not the only opposition. The moment 
the idea of a public drawing-school for girls was started, it was 
met with cool derision as a thing impossible, ridiculous, out of the 
question. It had to encounter such difficulties, sneers, petty 
objections, jealous interference, that it required months of perse- 
verance on the part of one or two good hearted and resolute men 
to bring it to bear, — and all this on the score of morals, forsooth ! 
One would have thought that half London was to be demoralized 
because a class of thirty or forty girls were taught to use a pencil 
under the same roof with a class of boys, though the two schools 
were separated by three stories ! The reader, perhaps, pauses 
and doubts, and finds it difficult to be serious. The writer feels 
that such things have their serious, and even their tragic, aspect. 
If there be no just cause for these fears and scruples, it is ridicu- 
lous enough ; but if there he just cause, it is monstrous. 

This, then, is what I mean when I speak of the anomalous 
condition of women in these days. I would point out as a pri- 
mary source of incalculable mischief, the contradiction between 
her assumed and her real position ; between what is called her 
proper sphere by the laws of God and nature, and what has 
become her real sphere by the law of necessity, and through the 
complex relations of artificial existence. In the strong language 
of Carlyle, I would say that " here is a lie, standing up in the 
midst of society." I would say, " Down with it, even to the 
ground ;" — for while this perplexed and barbarous anomaly 
exists, fretting like an ulcer at the very heart of society, all mere 
specifics and palliatives are in vain. The question must be settled 
one way or another ; either let the man in all the relations of life 
be held the natural guardian of the woman — constrained to fulfil 
that trust — responsible to society for her well being and her main- 



152 WOMAN'S MISSION, &c. 

tenance ; or if she be liable to be thrust from the sanctuary of 
home to provide for herself through the exercise of such faculties 
as God has given her, let her at least have fair play ; let it not 
be avowed in the same breath, that protection is necessary to her, 
and that it is refused to her ; and while we send her forth into 
the desert, and bind the burthen on her back, and put the staff 
into her hand, — let not her steps be beset, her limbs fettered, and 
her eyes blindfolded. 



VI 



THE RELATIVE SOCIAL POSITION 



MOTHERS AND GOVERNESSES. 



8* 



RELATIVE SOCIAL POSITION, &c. 155 



ON THE RELATIVE POSITION 



MOTHERS AND GOVERNESSES, 

Of the relations which exist between one human being and 
another, some are necessary as arising out of our individual na- 
ture, our wants, our instincts, our affections, — and some are neces- 
sary as arising out of our common nature and the laws which bind 
us together in communities ; — and all these relations, in some 
form or other, however modified by custom, are common to all 
periods and countries, and all degrees of civilisation. 

Other relations there are, not natural, not necessary, arising 
out of a very luxurious and complicate state of society, most im- 
portant in their bearing on our happiness, hard to define, harder 
to deal with, because society does not recognize in them any right 
or privilege — the law does not protect them — opinion does not 
reach them. 

Of these merely conventional relations, one of the most artifi- 
cial, the most anomalous, is the existence of a class of women 
whom we style private governesses ; women employed to give 
such home training and instruction as are necessary to our chil- 
dren, and fulfil the highest of those duties which, in a simpler 
state of society, devolve on the parents. 

Tutors, schoolmasters, teachers by profession of the other sex, 
are almost as old as society itself — date from Chiron the Centaur 
down to Bishop Prettyman. Where we are to seek for the proto- 



156 RELATIVE SOCIAL POSITION 

type of governesses in the antique time I do not know, unless it 
may be in Minerva herself, whose Olympian avocation it was to 
keep the Muses and Graces in order, and who taught the daughters 
of Pandarus to spin and to weave ; but we do not find that this 
celestial example served to give any dignity to governess-ship even 
in those times. Female arts were taught by female slaves : the 
liberal arts by men. 

In the Middle Ages the education of the young was a religious 
vocation on the part of the women as of the men, — it is still so in 
the latter case. The profession of tutor in our days seems a part 
of the clerical profession, and is in many instances a stepping- 
stone to high ecclesiastical preferment. With every advance in 
civilisation, the position of the instructor advances in importance 
and in dignity ; how is it that precisely the reverse is the case 
where women are concerned ? With them the task of education 
has ceased to have the sanctity and dignity of a religious calling ; 
it has taken no rank as a profession ; and it leads to nothing that 
1 know of but a broken constitution, and a lonely unblessed old 
age. It is at the most an occupation affording the means of a 
present subsistence, and that a very poor one, with the prospect, 
at best, of half-starving on a charitable pension of 15Z. a-year from 
some Benevolent Institution, or perhaps a little annuity of 307. or 
40?., scraped together by the toil of some twenty years — the best 
years of existence.* 

The inferior position of the woman, and the inferior value of 
her services, as compared with the same classes in the other sex, 
is in no instance so obvious, so bitterly felt, so unspeakably unjust, 
as in this. 

* At the election which took place at a meeting of the Governesses' Be- 
nevolent Institution, in May last, there were sixty-five candidates for two 
pensions of 15/. a-year ,—all these had been engaged in tuition from twenty 
to fifty years. 



OF MOTHERS AND GOVERNESSES. 157 

One reason may be that the profession of a tutor infers the 
education of a scholar and a gentleman ; that it is only one of 
the many paths in which a man going forth into the world, to ful- 
fil the man's duty and destiny, may earn an honorable livelihood, 
by means which do not prevent him from mingling with society 
and with the world, nor shut him out from advancement and im- 
provement ; while with the woman, " whose proper sphere is 
home," — the woman who either has no home, or is exiled from 
that which she has, — the occupation of governess is sought merely 
as a necessity, as the only means by which a woman not born in 
the servile classes can earn the means of subsistence. 

It may be asked, " And why should this be such a very great 
hardship ? if the training of the young be the woman's natural 
vocation — peculiarly fitted to the feminine organization — in har- 
mony with her whole being — one would imagine that, under ordi- 
nary circumstances, it would be her choice, her aim, her happi- 
ness, to fulfil it. How is it then that the position should generally 
be one of such suffering, that a woman who knows anything of 
the world would, if the choice were left to her, be anything in 
the world rather than be a governess V 

It used to be only the titled and the rich who required govern- 
esses for their daughters ; there were few women either inclined 
to the task, or by education qualified for it, and it was generally 
fulfilled by the poorer relatives of the family. It is within the 
last fifty years, since marriage has become more and more diffi- 
cult, — forced celibacy, with all its melancholy and demoralizing 
consequences, more and more general, — that we find that govern- 
esses have become a class, and a class so numerous, that the 
supply has, in numbers at least, exceeded the demand. Yet ask 
any of your friends and acquaintance ; — they will tell you that 
the difficulty of procuring on any terms such a woman as they 



158 RELATIVE SOCIAL POSITION 

would choose to entrust their children to, seems to increase in 
proportion with the crowds of needy competitors : — and no doubt 
it is so. The causes we may hear discussed by mothers from time 
to time with wonder, with lamentation, with a sort of disgust, as 
if the difficulty lay all on one side ! But if it be so, most cer- 
tainly it is not the governesses who make the difficulties. Granted 
that out of a thousand women who offer themselves as governess- 
es, there is scarcely one qualified for the task — we must grant 
also that out of a thousand employers, there is scarcely one who 
has a proper idea of how a governess ought to be treated. Yet, 
nevertheless, be it observed, the requisitions and the stipulations 
are all on one side, all on the part of the employer ; the governess 
generally offers herself, and the best that is in her, for anything 
that she can get. It is a contract without equality ; a bargain in 
which, on one side at least, there is no choice. So from the very 
beginning we have the germ of those vexations, and difficulties, 
and misunderstandings, which perplex what might seem at first 
view to be one of the simplest of all the social relations. For is 
it not a very simple thing, that affectionate and intelligent parents, 
who for sufficient reasons repudiate the idea of sending their 
daughters from home, and whose occupations prevent them from 
making their education a chief care, should take into their family 
a lady well mannered and well educated, who, for a certain 
stipend will supply, in certain things, the place of the mother ? 
It is a bargain like all other bargains, — " I give you what you 
want, taking in return what I want ;" and when these people, — 
father, mother, and governess — thus necessary to each other — are 
thrown together, how is it that the mutual relation becomes so 
often to the one a " bore," to the other a " gene," to the third a 
burthen ; — to all three unsatisfactory, and to one of the three well 
nigh intolerable ? 

The misfortune is, that this mutual contract not only begins 



OF MOTHERS AND GOVERNESSES. 159 

with an inequality, which leaves on our side no choice — it in- 
volves a contradiction. No social arrangements can violate cer- 
tain natural and necessary premises with impunity, nor indeed 
without admixture of much evil. The relation which exists be- 
tween the governess and her employer either places a woman of 
education and of superior faculties in an ambiguous and inferior 
position, with none of the privileges of a recognized profession, 
or it places a vulgar, half-educated woman in a situation of high 
responsibility, requiring superior endowments. In either of these 
cases, and one or other is almost inevitable, the result cannot be 
good ; must in fact bring with it more or less of evil consequen- 
ces, to be dealt with as best we may. 

Benevolent persons, struck by the great, the growing perplexi- 
ties and miseries which arise out of this particular relation, have 
given it much consideration, — have suggested, — have attempted 
various remedies, — have given them up one after another in 
despair, — and have ended with the conviction, expressed openly, 
yet not without a sigh, that the evil is at once necessary and irre- 
mediable ; that it is past hope, past cure, past help. Yet, God 
forbid ! — How, where there is no sin, only mistake, can there be 
irremediable evil ? When evil springs out of the natural course 
of things, it is sent for a trial, and finds its remedy also in the 
natural course of things. But, say you, " this particular relation 
does not spring out of the natural course of things ; it is wholly 
unnatural and artificial ; there is no remedy but in abolishing it 
altogether ; and this is impossible : therefore, what remains, but 
still to go on heaping mischief on error and misery until the 
wrong, in its magnitude and its publicity, finds its cure !" 

This, surely, is a desperate view of the matter. It is very 
possible, that the necessity of having private governesses, except 
in particular cases, may at some future time be done away with 
by a systematic and generally accessible education for women of 
all classes j and that some other means of earning a subsistence 



160 RELATIVE SOCIAL POSITION 

may be opened to the earnest woman, willing and able to work ; 
meantime, the present evil lies a stumbling-block and a rock of 
offence before us ; and in the midst of our hopes of what may, or 
might, or ought to be, let us look to what is. Private governesses 
exist, must live, must be employed by those who cannot do with- 
out them : and as the case is beyond the reach of public law or 
opinion, is it not worth while to try how far an exposition of the 
true state of this relation between the mother and the governess 
might influence private opinion and individual feeling ? 

Here are two women who meet, as it were, from the opposite 
extremities of society, — the woman of the people, and the woman 
of the aristocracy ; — the poor woman who sells her services, and 
the rich woman who buys them ; — the woman who has known 
what it is to eat her daily bread in bitterness, perhaps to want it, 
and the woman whose days have run 

" Far, far aloof from want, from grief, from fear, 
From all that teaches brotherhood to man." 

Strangers perhaps for half a life-time, they are brought all at 
once into intimate alliance, through common objects of solicitude, 
through daily communion; equal, perhaps, by nature and by 
education, they are divided by position, by prejudices of caste, 
by pride — defensive, if not offensive, — by acquired habits of 
thought ; and looking in each other's faces every day, they re- 
main to the end strangers. 

Yes, we all know that there must be social distinctions — rich 
and poor — noble and plebeian ; but to one who has learned to 
look on this motley world with an equal eye, — who has dwelt on 
equal terms with high and low, — dreadful is the feeling which in 
these days, and in our country especially, separates class from 
class, setting between them a fathomless gulf of ignorance, worse 



OF MOTHERS AND GOVERNESSES. 161 



than any chevaux-de-frise of pride or hatred ! In the latter case 
there is something for the generous on both sides to overcome, — 
to resist ; but before that dark gulf, of which they cannot mea- 
sure the depth nor the breadth till they find it gaping in their 
path, they stand powerless, and stare across it into each other's 
feces, which show like masks, not men ! 

A benevolent project, which was started within the last few 
years, for the institution of a college for governesses, raised the 
question as to whether a woman should be educated expressly 
for this employment ; and if so, what kind of education she ought 
to receive ? 

Opinions varied. It is found that a woman can seldom teach 
well, because she has so seldom been well taught ; besides, that 
teaching is an art in itself, requiring, like other arts, practice as 
well as theory. It is found that elemental knowledge is best 
imparted by women — kindly, patient, clear-headed women ; but 
that the moment we rise above the mere elements, we are con- 
scious of a deficiency in all female teaching ; a want of compre- 
hensiveness and completeness ; a want of method, — a want of 
certainty in themselves : and, farther, that the power of teaching 
effectively a particular branch of knowledge is quite a different 
thing from the capability of inspiring the love and the taste for 
knowledge. 

For myself, I should not much like to take into my family a 
woman educated expressly for a teacher. I should expect to 
meet with something of a machine ; for a little consideration will 
show how almost impossible it is for a woman, whose faculties 
have been engrossed by the means, to have a comprehensive view 
of the end and aim of acquiring knowledge, — particularly if such 
acquired knowledge is regarded merely as so much capital to be 
laid out at interest, the return to be estimated in pounds, shillings, 
and pence. A college expressly to teach women the art of 



162 RELATIVE SOCIAL POSITION 

teaching would be very useful ; we want good and efficient fe- 
male teachers for all classes, and there is no reason why we 
should not have female professors of distinct branches of know- 
ledge, as grammar, arithmetic, the elements of mathematics, 
music, dancing, drawing; — but I do not trust to a woman pro- 
fessing them all in a lump : and, farther, I am of opinion, that 
the same qualifications which might render a woman an admira- 
ble teacher of one distinct branch of knowledge would not render 
her a desirable governess ; for to instruct is one thing, and to 
educate is another ; — it requires a training of quite a different 
kind from any that could be given in a college for governesses. 

As to what that training ought to be, I have heard opinions 
which show fearfully how custom may pervert the most upright 
and benevolent of minds. I have heard it said, and supported by 
argument, that, to fit a woman for a private governess, you must 
not only cram her with grammar, languages, dates, and all the 
technicalities of teaching, but you must educate her in the seclu- 
sion of a nunnery, — inure her to privation, discipline, drudgery ; 
and, above all, avoid the cruelty, — yes, that was the word, — the 
cruelty of giving her any ideas, feelings, aspirations, which might 
render the slavery of her future life more dreadful than of neces- 
sity it must be. In other words, it should be permitted to us to 
set apart a certain class of women, who, without the elevating 
sense of a religious obligation, should be condemned to worse 
bondage and seclusion than any nuns ; and youth, which " God 
anointed with the oil of gladness," be made to them as dark, and 
barren, and bitter as possible on system ; — and for what ? — that 
they may be better able to educate our children ? A moment's 
thought shows us the monstrous injustice and inhumanity of such 
a calculation, even though it were admitted that the means should 
avail for the purpose ; but they would turn out as foolish and 
short-sighted as all other injustice. The best way to prepare a 



OF MOTHERS AND GOVERNESSES. 103 

woman to work and endure, is to make her strong in the sense 
of duty, cheerful, confiding, healthful, hopeful in mind and tem- 
per ; — to increase, in short, all her means of happiness. Would 
you take into your house a poor, abject, sickly machine of a 
woman — broken in to endurance, — and that by no natural process 
of reason and self-control, but much as you would break your 
heifer to the plough ; with whom such endurance was not a deep 
Christian principle of duty, but a miserable humiliating necessity ? 
Does not the idea, that a special training of character should be 
necessary for a governess, mark the falsity of the position, or, at 
least, the mistaken ideas which prevail with regard to it ? par- 
ticularly if you allow that such training is against our better 
nature, and would form a disagreeable, unloveable, or inefficient 
woman in any other condition 1 The fact is, that the same edu- 
cation which would form the good mother, would form the good 
governess ; and the same qualities which you would desire to find 
in a woman, in any relation of life, should satisfy you in her to 
whom you trust your children ; — good principles, good sense, 
good feeling, good taste, good manners ; — and add, of course, that 
genuine love of children, without which the feminine organization 
cannot be deemed complete. 

Let us now try if it be possible to reconcile some diversities of 
opinion and feeling, by showing the futility of certain expecta- 
tions, objections, and requisitions on both sides. So many of the 
worst evils complained of spring not so much from ill-feeling as 
from ignorance, and mismanagement, and misconception, that if 
we could place this mutual contract on a basis founded in mutual 
understanding, it might prevent at least some disappointment and 
some pain. At least would it not be better than merely proving 
by words, that wrong is wrong, leaving it there without an effort 
to make it right ? for this seems to me the greatest wrong of all. 

And first, I address myself to the mother. : not the weak, half- 
educated, unthinking, selfish mother, with a soul knit up in preju- 



164 RELATIVE SOCIAL POSITION 

dices, but the well-educated, right-hearted, candid, and under- 
standing mother. 

" You are in search of a governess for your children % You 
require of course all the cardinal virtues ; all the branches of 
knowledge ; all the ' experience in tuition ;' and all the ' unex- 
ceptionable references' that ever were set forth in a newspaper 
advertisement. Or — no t — you are not so unreasonable ? You 
have thought on the subject ; have considered that you cannot 
expect to have all imaginable perfections combined for your espe- 
cial use. You limit your expectations within the range of possi- 
bilities, and your requisitions to what you feel to be absolutely 
indispensable, considering the views you entertain for your chil- 
dren. As a matter of course, unexceptionable morals, or she 
could not be received within your house ; perfect integrity, or 
she could not remain in it ; — the treasurer who must give security 
for his capability and his honesty — through whose hands must 
pass heaps of uncounted gold, has a mean charge compared with 
that you lay on her, the innocence of your children ; the priceless 
treasure of their hearts, souls, hopes here and hereafter ; — there- 
fore integrity. Good sense, necessary to all, — most necessary in 
a position scarcely denned by custom or opinion, of which the 
bearings must be determined by personal character and good tem- 
per : — for who would entrust the daily comfort and well-being of 
their children to one who had not the best of tempers ? Then 
with regard to the most important point of all, — her religious 
creed, — it must be in unison with your own. You are not in- 
tolerant — would not under any other circumstances make inqui- 
sition into the tenets of any human being ; but here it is different. 
You must, for the sake of domestic harmony in that most vital of 
interests, have the assurance that her opinions are in accordance 
with your own ; her convictions as fixed — as sincere. Then, 
though you do not expect her to be as learned as an adept or a 



OF MOTHERS AND GOVERNESSES. 165 



professor, she must be weh versed in elementary science ; must be 
well informed on all common subjects, for how else could she meet 
the eager questioning of intelligent children ? The classics you 
do not absolutely insist on ; some knowledge of Latin— just to 
assist Master Henry in the holidays— would be very acceptable ; 
—still you do not insist on it ; but modern languages, and a taste 
for literature, sufficient to give a coloring to the whole mind, are 
matters of course. Lastly, excellent manners; — not merely as 
example to her pupils, but necessary to ensure her the respect of 
those above and below her. Put all these indispensable requisites 
together, — enlightened piety, unimpeachable morals, integrity, 
good sense, good temper, sound cultivation, elegance of mind and 
manners, — these assuredly would form in their combination a sort 
of rara avis, ' unefemme comme il y en a pen.' What more could 
you demand in the friend you could grapple to your heart 1 Yet 
this you require, and expect to find in a woman so circumstanced, 
that she shall be glad to accept dependence as a boon, and grate- 
ful for such payment as you can afford for the devotion of all 
these gifts and graces to your especial use and advantage ! 

" You feel the ridicule of this : but a governess you must have. 
You are resigned to endure some short-comings — some imperfec- 
tions. If you can obtain integrity and a cultivated mind, you 
will put up with some little want of manners — you can yourself 
supply that deficiency. If there be sense, integrity, and good 
manners, the deficiencies in learning may be supplied by masters. 
A very young lady, wholly inexperienced, is a great trouble ; but 
then you have something more fresh in feeling — more pliable 
to your views ; — you may be able, in some points, to form the 
mind which is to form the minds of your children ; this is worth 
a thought. On the other hand, if you engage one who, to use the 
common phrase, is ' accustomed to tuition,' and has spent several 
years in ' families of the first distinction,' you are likely to have 
a good deal of the mere metier, a good deal of system and self- 



66 RELATIVE SOCIAL POSITION 

ove ; or you fall on one who may have begun with a heart, and 
has been petrified into a formality ; but you will have the advan- 
tage of school-room routine, ability, and experience, which also 
are worth consideration. You weigh the alternatives on these 
points — -and at length, after a long search, you find at last not all 
— not half — you could wish, but ' some one that will do,' some 
one, who, as you have reason to believe, will not abuse your con- 
fidence ; who is perfectly orthodox ; who will teach grammar, and 
geography and music, and the other 'branches of education,' as 
well as she can ; who has gentle manners, and will attend to your 
directions, and follow out your views, as far as she has capacity 
to do so : and with this you try to rest satisfied, — very surely you 
ought to be so, and not only satisfied, but thankful. 

" Well, then, you have found a governess, not highly, but suf- 
ficiently qualified for the trust. You have done your duty so far 
to your children. The duties of your governess being precisely 
laid down, you will next — for I suppose myself addressing a 
woman with a heart and a conscience — consider what are your 
duties to her. As the mother and mistress of your family, you 
have duties to each member of your family, and none more serious 
than towards the person entrusted with the education of your 
children. I do not here speak of such duties as a matter of cal- 
culation as regards your children ; nor do I say, what is obvious 
enough, that the proper discharge of such duties involves their 
welfare. I take far other ground, — and I say to you, that you are 
responsible for as much of the well-being of that person as depends 
on you, the mistress and head of your family. Will you reply, 
1 I have engaged a governess to save myself time and trouble, not 
to give myself additional trouble. She is to manage my children ; 
I cannot take upon myself to manage her. If I treat her with 
civility, and pay her salary quarterly, the rest, I presume, is her 
business. I must really leave her to take care of her own hap- 
piness.' 



OF MOTHERS AND GOVERNESSES. 167 

" Some might say this ; you, whom I suppose myself addressing, 
will not say so. You will acknowledge at once that you have 
duties relatively to her. The power is on your side, and there 
can be no power without corresponding responsibilities. You only 
wish to place them before you clearly, and to discharge them con- 
scientiously. You feel that it is a great mistake, — if it be not a 
grievous sin, — to regard the human being who dwells beneath your 
roof, and in the shadow of your protection, merely as an instru- 
ment to be used for your own purposes. She also has a life to be 
worked out, in respect to which her present duty to you and your 
children — give it all the importance you will — is a means, not an 
end. You may help the working out of this life, or you may put 
an extinguisher on it. You may contribute to make it a bright, 
dignified, hopeful, heart-solacing progress through trouble to 
peace — such peace as the world cannot give — or a rueful, heavy, 
degrading, and detested burthen, endured only through necessity, 
and to be thrown off at the first possible moment. In short, the 
relation between you and your children's governess may be, in a 
religious point of view, what all other relations of life are — a mu- 
tual help to salvation, through the virtues it may call forth, as 
forbearance, self-control, heart-service, sincerity, and all benign 
and generous feeling ; or it may be what is called a ' snare,' — 
that is, a provocative to all bad passions, arrogance, petty tyranny, 
suspicion, selfish hardness, on one side ; discontent, dissembling, 
silent heart-festering, on the other. True, she has taken up her 
burthen, and must bear it as she may — we each bear our burthen 
through life: but if, through neglect of yours, or abuse of power, 
that burthen be rendered intolerable, the sin be upon you. Be 
assured that you will be held responsible for the tears shed in 
secret beneath your roof, and if there come a day when the 
thoughts of all hearts shall be laid open, you will be filled with 
horror at the revelation of the suffering you have, — not willingly 



168 RELATIVE SOCIAL POSITION 

not intentionally, perhaps — but most heedlessly and most reck- 
lessly inflicted. 

" ' You should cultivate cheerfulness,' said a lady in an authori- 
tative tone to her pale governess ; which was much as if she had 
ordered her gardener to cultivate her flowers without rain or sun- 
shine. ' Go to — make brick without straw,' was nothing to this ! 
Most assuredly it is the duty of the governess to endure, as cheer- 
fully as possible, what is unavoidable in her position — confinement, 
solitude, daily toil, the restraint of a monotonous and yet unquiet 
existence. It will be your duty to give what relief may be possi- 
ble ; to afford some facilities for change of employment, some 
opportunities for variety. All that can be afforded in this way 
where children are concerned, must amount to so very little, and 
that little is so precious and so necessary, that it should be a mat- 
ter of conscience on one side, and of stipulation on the other — not 
a matter of favor. I recollect an instance of a young girl of 
twenty, with the best will and intentions, and some qualities ad- 
mirably suited to her task, who, within two years, became lan- 
guid, nervous, hysterical, and at length utterly broken down. 
She was obliged to give up her situation. Here, though great 
and lasting injury was inflicted, no unkindness was intended — I 
should say, on the contrary, all kindness was intended ; and the 
services of the young lady were well paid and highly valued. 
The mother was full of lamentations at her own loss, and her 
friends condoled with her. The whole scene, which I witnessed, 
reminded me of an anecdote told by Horace Walpole : — how my 
Lord Castlecomer's tutor broke his leg, and how every one ex- 
claimed, ' What an exceeding inconvenience to my Lady Cas- 
tlecomer !' 

" If you engage a young governess, as less likely to have certain 
fixed habits, and more likely to bring to her task a cheerful tem- 
per (though this by no means follows of course), you must remem- 



OF MOTHERS AND GOVERNESSES. 160 

ber that some patience will be necessary ; you cannot expect to 
find her all at once efficient. She will be presumptuous, perhaps, 
or perhaps she will be nervous and over-anxious. In either case 
she will require your forbearance, or even help. There is much 
in making a good beginning. Give her all the benefit of your 
better knowledge of your children's characters ; let no maternal 
vanity interfere with your truth in this respect. Encourage her 
to refer to you, — and when she does so, avoid a too dictatorial tone : 
she may, without being a weak woman, be a timid, sensitive 
woman ; the tone of command discourages even where it is not 
felt as an affront. Your first object is, to strengthen her spirits 
for the task, and give her such assurance in herself as shall enable 
her to govern with a firm hand. I am obliged to confess that I 
have seen the case reversed : mothers absolutely alarmed at their 
governesses, — cold, and haughty, and distant, out of mere shyness, 
and an embarrassed consciousness of their own deficiencies. Now, 
unless they have to deal with a woman of strong sense and quick 
penetration, this is fatal to all future good understanding. 

" You are aware that the health and temper of your governess 
will greatly influence the happiness of the school-room. If the 
feeling of politeness and reserve on these delicate points be once 
overstept, it might cause much mischief. Without assuming any- 
thing, without dictation or undue interference with personal feeling, 
it is in the power of a wise, considerate mother to make her 
general arrangements promote both health and temper, which 
depend more on certain outward influences than we are apt to 
allow, particularly where others are concerned. 

" The accommodations you give your governess will, of course, 

be in due proportion to your fortune and position. Let them be 

the best you can give. A large airy school-room is very essential ; 

without luxury, but also without that look of bareness and vulgar 

9 



170 RELATIVE SOCIAL POSITION 

discomfort I have occasionally met with. I recollect an instance 
in the family of a nobleman, as celebrated for his lavish expendi- 
ture, as his wife for her airs and extravagance, and whose house 
was one of the finest in London. You went up a back stair-case 
to a small set of rooms, with a confined gloomy aspect ; — the study 
was barely furnished ; the carpet faded and mended ; stiff backed 
chairs — as if invented for penance ; — a large table against the 
wall — the map of Europe, and the " Stream of Time ;" — a look 
of meanness, coldness, barrenness, which would have chilled at 
once any woman accustomed to a home, or who had known the 
habits and accessaries of elegant life : and out of a vulgar or inferior 
existence I presume you would not select a governess. Such a 
contrast is painful in the extreme, and we feel it ought not to be ; 
if luxuries are out of place, let there be comfort. To surround 
your governess with those little appliances which are felt more in 
the absence than the presence, with all that can lighten toil, and 
make confinement and dependence bearable, is a point of common 
benevolence and charity ; but it is also a matter of good-sense 
and calculation ; for all that sustains the self-complacency and 
brightens the spirits of the governess will react on your children. 

" I would warn you against allowing your children to share the 
bed-room of the governess. That it is a cruel invasion of her 
privacy in her only place of refuge, is not the only or the strongest 
reason against such an arrangement. There are others which will 
easily suggest themselves to the mind of a sensible mother. An 
experienced governess, who has the manners and habits of a lady, 
and who is in a position to stipulate for anything, will always 
stipulate for her own room. It ought to be a matter of course, 
as most advisable on both sides ; by want of thought on this point, 
I have known much mischief done, which could not afterwards be 
undone. 

" It is presumed that you visit your children's study daily ; not 



OF MOTHERS AND GOVERNESSES. 171 

Injudiciously to meddle, and dictate and interrupt ; but to en- 
courage and to observe. If you are conscious of your own 
deficiencies, do not rashly interfere ; you run the risk of exposing 
yourself before your children. If you are conscious of your 
own superiority, do not rashly interfere ; you risk the respect 
due to the governess. If there be anything which calls for 
observation, or rectification, it should be noticed in the absence 
of the children, and with the utmost openness. Such openness 
will produce openness on her part with regard to the reasons and 
motives of her management, and lead to an increase of mutual 
knowledge and mutual respect. 

" But while recommending the utmost openness and truth in all 
that regards the duties of her situation, I would warn a mother 
against making her children's governess her confidante in any- 
thing out of the sphere of this mutual relation. It may place her 
in a most embarrassing position, and both in a false position. It 
fills her mind with cares which interfere with the cheerful dis- 
charge of her duties ; it keeps alive in her mind a craving for 
sympathy, which must cease to be a necessity to her. It is just 
possible that a mother may find in her children's governess a dear 
and intimate friend for life ; but it is a case so exceptional, that 
it cannot be taken into account here. The peculiar nature of an 
intercourse so intimate, yet so limited, — a connection so near, yet 
of necessity so impermanent ; the difference of position, the con- 
sideration of hired service — for it is so — the inequalities of all 
kinds, render such a friendship hardly a natural one. There may 
be attachment, gratitude, esteem ; only not friendship — as I under- 
stand the word. It might be rendered possible by strong attrac- 
tion of character, combined with peculiar circumstances ; but on 
both sides had better be avoided than sought. 

" Then it is very likely, after all, that some paragon of a govern- 
ess, whom you thought yourself blessed in obtaining, may disap- 



172 RELATIVE SOCIAL POSITION 

point you on further acquaintance. Faults, unfitnesses, incompati- 
bilities, such as could only be called forth in daily intercourse, 
distress, displease you ; — you are perplexed ; things are really 
so provoking ! yet change is always so unpleasant, so incon- 
venient ! You would willingly attempt to rectify what annoys 
you by argument, by representations — by discussion. But before 
you commit yourself by words, pause, — reflect a little. Is the 
fault one of importance ? Is it a fault of temper or character, 
and such as may influence the temper and character of your 
child ? Then do not hope that words or representations will 
mend the matter, nor do away with the habits of a life. You 
cannot alter a nature. The fault may be one which involves no 
reproach, — has nothing to do with the morals or general capa- 
bilities of the governess, — yet it may unfit her for the particular 
circumstances of your family, and the particular ages and 
tempers of your children. Of secondary faults, the most 
intolerable, the most incurable, are uncertain temper, indolence, 
and the want of order; but it may be something of even 
far less importance. She is too yielding, or too harsh ; too talk- 
ative — too taciturn ; too sentimental — too cold ; too caressing — 
too something or other ; — in short an uncongenial inmate ; she 
had better go at once. Though unfitted for your family, she 
might be a treasure in another ; you part willingly, and in no 
unfriendly spirit — but the sooner the better. But, on the other 
hand, the fault may be merely a deficiency. She may not 
be so profound a musician, nor so well versed in this or thai 
branch of knowledge, as the quick talents of one or the other of 
your children require ; or it may be some little peculiarity of 
manner, some little eccentricity, such as one gets accustomed to 
in time. In these cases reflect before you speak ; and unless 
the thing can be amended, and unless you have firmly resolved on 
the alternative of a change, do not speak at all. You can do no 
good, and you risk much mischief. It is much better, wiser, 



OF MOTHERS AND GOVERNESSES. 173 

more true economy, to supply the deficiency by other instruction, 
or endure a slight fault in habits and manners, than part with one 
in whose moral qualities you have confidence, and who has won 
the affections and respect of your children." 

I turn now to the governess ; and I suppose myself in this, as 
in the former instance, addressing a feeling and an intelligent 
woman. 

" You are in search of a situation as Governess, and deem your- 
self sufficiently prepared by study, and possessed of a fair share 
of the thousand qualifications usually required. If you are 
young, you probably set forth full of hope, of courage, — and with 
such a lofty idea of the importance of the task you undertake, 
that you feel yourself uplifted, as it were ; and bear the previous 
catechizing pretty well. To you it is not the beginning of your 
career that will be the hardest or the saddest part of it. 

" I have never in my life heard of a governess who was such by 
choice : and when you look about for a family in which to enter, 
not only you will not have the power to choose, but in all proba- 
bility your circumstances are such, that you will not have the 
power to refuse. Still an alternative may be possible. A family 
of high rank or great wealth, and a family of the middle class, 
offer advantages and disadvantages of various kinds, which may 
be more or less suitable to your character, temper, and previous 
education. In general, the higher the rank the greater will be 
the courtesy with which you are treated ; such courtesy being 
ever in proportion to the wideness and impassability of the dis- 
tance which society has placed between you and your employer. 

" In a family of high rank and place, you will have more soli- 
tude, but more independence : you will be shielded even by your 
state of proscription from petty affronts ; but you will have nei- 
ther companionship nor sympathy. In a family of the middle 



174 RELATIVE SOCIAL POSITION 

classes, even where the people are well-bred, you will be in a 
more ambiguous and a more difficult position. You will have 
more comforts and companionship than in a family of higher 
rank : but the discomforts inseparable from your position will 
come nearer to you, and in a form more disagreeable. On the 
whole, for a young governess who has yet to earn her experience, 
a family in the middle classes is preferable. 

" And now for the earning of this experience,— by which I do not 
mean experience in teaching, which is sure to come with, and 
only to come through, time and practice ; — but experience in act- 
ing and endurance, which, if we can forestall on some points, it 
will be a saving of time and a saving of pain. Some hints, with 
regard to self-knowledge and self-management, will do more for 
you than all the guides, aids, and school-room appliances, that 
ever were invented or published. 

" Probably the first difficulties you will have to encounter, will 
arise from pride ; — pride under one of those deceptive names 
which it is apt to borrow occasionally, as ' self-respect,' ' dignity 
of mind,' ' proper pride,' and so forth : this you will have 
especially to guard against. If you come from a home where 
you have been of importance to the happiness of others, and 
where love has waited round your steps, you will be in danger of 
being a little sentimental and sensitive ; silently reserved, if not 
touchy ; apt to misconstrue words, and repel intended kindness, 
because it does not come in the form you like. Or if you have 
been ' educated for a governess,' as the phrase is, and have come 
from some ' Ladies' Seminary,' or fashionable boarding-school, 
your pride will be, perhaps, of the hedgehog kind, offensive and 
defensive, as if through a sort of bristling assumption you could 
protect yourself from apprehended insult. I think it quite possi- 
ble that a young woman, who has otherwise both good sense and 
good feeling, might be in danger of falling into one or other of 
these extremes, according to the nature and previous circum- 



OF MOTHERS AND GOVERNESSES. 175 

stances. For, in a position in some respects so false, — of which 
the exact duties, powers, and privileges are altogether undefined 
by custom and opinion, and vary in every circle, self-guidance is 
very difficult. Natural good taste, and what is called tact, may 
do more for you than pride ; yet both these, and as much pride 
into the bargain as might have set up half-a-dozen duchesses, 
have I seen distanced and confounded utterly, by the strangeness, 
and new, perplexing painfulness of the situation. Yes ; I have 
known those who began this sort of life, not only with a spirit yet 
fresh and unbroken, but with the feeling that this so-called depen* 
dence might be, in fact, independence — the means of honorable 
self-support ; with trust in others, with strong faith in herself, and 
not without some enthusiastic notions of training the young minds 
entrusted to her to all good — even such a one have I known to 
bend, to break down utterly, under the crushing influences which 
met her at the very outset, and for which she was in nowise pre- 
pared. After all, the best preparation is to look upon the occupa- 
tion to which you are devoted (I was going to say doomed) as 
what it really is, — a state of endurance, dependence, daily thank- 
less toil ; to accept it as such courageously and meekly, because 
you must, — cheerfully, if you can ; — and so make the best of it. 

" You may reflect that there is no condition of life which, accord- 
ing to the spirit in which it is taken up, may not be worn as a 
crown, — that even for the governess there are some means of 
enjoyment, and some of improvement, if she know how to apply 
them. If you cannot derive strength and comfort from a reli- 
gious feeling of the high import of your calling, — if you have not 
a mind seasoned to begin by enduring all things, and requiring 
nothing, — it will go hard with you : in time you will be ground 
down to resignation ; but in the process you will be a pitiable 
creature. If you are fond of children — and no woman who is 
not fond of children ought to be a governess — there will be 
pleasure and interest naturally growing out of your situation, 



176 RELATIVE SOCIAL POSITION 

which will lighten the burthen. If you consider your pupils 
merely as so much material put into your hands — potter's clay to 
be shaped by your labor — you are lost. If you cannot rise 
superior to your daily task, you will never be equal to it. 

" The enigma that is given you to solve is this : ' What is it 
that goes to meet the sun backwards and never sees the light, 
but only its own dark shadow cast by the light V 3 — Solve it, or 
perish ! 

" Pride will not help you nor sustain you, but Truth will. In 
all the relations of life, as we are ready enough to acknowledge 
theoretically, truth is the best, the only foundation for peace, 
inward and outward ; and it is one of the greatest evils of depen- 
dence, that it is scarcely compatible with perfect truth ; for false- 
hood grows out of fear, — for dissimulation follows on the absence 
of sympathy. In this particular relation, a timid, or a sensitive 
and imaginative woman feels herself placed at such a disadvan- 
tage amid contending humors, domestic or merely school-room 
squabbles, maternal and paternal prejudices, partialities, weak- 
nesses, often jealousies ; — between the love of peace and the risk 
of losing her daily bread, that she finds it a daily, hourly effort to 
keep the straight path, and maintain unflinching truth. By truth 
I do not mean the absence of lying — that we suppose of course — 
but sincere, courageous openness in act and word, towards the 
children as towards their parents. The temptation to obliquity, 
the deterioration of character which gradually creeps on in con- 
sequence, cannot be calculated till the trial comes ; therefore I 
warn those, who, before the trial comes, would scorn to deem 
such a falling-off possible. 

" And next to truth, or rather as a part of truth, let me name 
Discretion — that perfect discretion and fidelity which you owe to 



OF MOTHERS AND GOVERNESSES. 177 

those under whose roof you dwell. It is no matter what their 
conduct may be to you. Here your duty lies clear and absolute 
before you ; and not merely while under their roof, but when you 
have left it, and to all time : — the same bond is on you, not to be 
violated without dishonor. When I have heard a woman babbling 
of the domestic affairs, or foibles, or peculiarities of those under 
whose roof she had lived, and whose bread she had eaten, I have 
felt a disgust no words could express. You are trusted, necessa- 
rily, as a physician is trusted, and indiscretion is not merely such, 
but treachery. 

" There is also another form of discretion I would particularly 
recommend. Forbear to meddle with anything going on in the 
family which does not lie strictly within your own department ; 
let not curiosity, nor even a benevolent interest, tempt you beyond 
that barrier. The lady may be troubled with the oesoin defaire 
les confidences — the gentleman may choose to make you the um- 
pire in a conjugal dispute; be warned, — in no case is prudence 
more requisite : there is just the possibility that a sensible and 
experienced woman might do secret good, but the case is a rare 
one, and remains for ever a secret. The chances, on the other 
hand, are, that you do much mischief, and to yourself chiefly. 
This principle of non-interference may be extended to all things 
out of your circle of duties ; and all persons, as aunts, grand- 
mothers, brothers, cousins. If you are obliged to see, hear, and 
understand much, let it be with reluctant sense and sealed lips. 
Secresy will not be a great burthen ; for in such extraneous mat- 
ters it is surprising how soon we forget that of which we do not 
allow ourselves to speak. 

" And the same discretion and reserve, which I recommend with 
regard to others, I would have you maintain as regards yourself 
and your own concerns. Remember that you are not on equal 
9* 



178 RELATIVE SOCIAL POSITION 

terms with any one person under the same roof; and never let 
the sense of loneliness, or the craving for sympathy, tempt you 
into seeking a confidante from among those above you, or those 
below you ; be content to give all and ask nothing, beyond punc- 
tuality in the payment of your salary. Learn to live without 
sympathy, for you will not have it ; and never be betrayed into 
undue familiarity. In this particular relation it is bad taste and 
vulgarity ; it is also in the highest degree impolitic. At some 
moment, when you least expect it, < on vous remettra a voire 
-place? and you stand insulted and defenceless. There is a Turk- 
ish proverb, which says, very truly, ' We govern the unspoken 
word, but the spoken word governs us. 3 Lay it to heart ! 

" Health will be, at least ought to be, a primary consideration. 
Take care of your own health, for no one will take care of it for 
you ; and health is for you the means of living. Among the 
greatest evils of dependence are forced exertion when the body is 
least fit for it — forced attention when the mind is least capable of 
it — a monotonous, and, in many respects, unnatural existence, at 
least to the young; — the results are the consequent loss of spirits, 
gradual failing of health, alternate excitement and depression of 
the nerves, — and every one has a just horror of a nervous gov- 
erness. Complaints of the ill-health of governesses, as a class, 
are so common, one meets with them at every turn : and let the 
physician speak of what he knows ! — he could make fearful reve- 
lations, if he dared, of the constitutions of young women ruined 
through fatigue, confinement, anxiety — in a sphere of life some- 
what above those who make shirts, and fit on finery. You love 
your pupils, are anxious for their progress, are interested in their 
amusements ; you have patience with them, and tenderness for 
them ; and yet the dizzying effect produced by the constant pre- 
sence of animated, active, high-spirited children, — the dulling 
effect of the drudgery of elementary teaching, cannot be told, nor 



OF MOTHERS AND GOVERNESSES. 179 

conceived, but by those who have endured it. Then comes the 
evening, with its short time of rest — solitariness following upon 
disquiet ; the sinking of the overstrung nerves, and all manner 
of suffering, such as tongue cannot speak, and which the sufferer 
herself cannot understand ; but it must be understood, and it must 
be met as one of the consequences of her position. Some know- 
ledge of the physical laws of your own being, — knowledge, which 
no one who has the care of children should be without — some 
judicious self-management will help you here ; many governesses 
ruin their health through their own neglect, ignorance, and weak- 
ness. 

" An important, but seldom considered, help to cheerfulness, is 
the arrangement of your time. The importance of punctuality 
and order, as regards your pupils, is beyond all calculation. 
Where there are children, if there be not order there is most 
fearful disorder. You know and admit this with respect to them 
— think of it also as regards yourself. If you lose a half-hour in 
the morning for want of energy to rise, you will be in a hurry of 
spirits during the rest of the day to redeem it, and then there will 
be still less of energy for the next day, — and so on through a 
chapter of ill consequences. The methodical arrangement and 
conscientious discharge of your daily duties will give that calm- 
ness to your mind and deportment which will help to preserve 
health. Procrastination, indolence, hurry, and unmethodical 
ways, are, in your position, most destructive. Then, with regard 
to your hours of solitary rest, you may remember and apply one- 
half of Johnson's precept, ' If you are solitary be not idle,' — 
(the other half you had best forget). It is difficult to make an 
effort with jaded spirits and weary frame — difficult to detach the 
mind from what has engrossed every faculty for twelve consecu- 
tive hours ; — and the more of heart and soul you put into your 
task, the more difficult ; yet the effort must be made ; and on 



ISO RELATIVE SOCIAL POSITION 

your power to turn your mind and attention into a wholly different 
channel will depend the measure of relief. 

" It is quite possible, with the most conscientious discharge of 
your duty to your pupils, to carry on some pursuit or study inde- 
pendent of them. There might be some jealousy on the part of 
a selfish or a thoughtless mother ; and if so, it is best to meet all 
objections at once with an open explanation of your motives, and 
she must be very stupid, as well as very unthinking, if she do not 
feel the force of the appeal. 

" The choice of a pursuit must be left to individual taste. 
Whatever it may be, let it not beguile you into late hours at 
night. Drawing, or the acquisition of a language, may be 
reckoned among the best. Needle-work is good ; but leaves the 
thoughts too much at liberty as a solitary occupation ; it is apt to 
encourage the habit of reverie ; and your object must be to avoid 
it. Reading is good ; but should not be the sole pursuit. Be not 
tempted into a course of novel reading ; a good work of fiction is 
such a charming delassement for the overworked mind, that there 
is danger that such reading might become too engrossing ; and 
then it involves a violation or a neglect of duty ; and I suppose 
myself addressing a woman of principle, who would see such a 
mistake in its true light. 

" But after months of continuous exertion there will come, per- 
haps, a distaste for reading, an inability to command your atten- 
tion ; a listlessness or deadness of spirit will creep over you ; then, 
let not the mischief go on till it be too late ; nor imagine that you 
can, merely by an effort of will, help yourself. Ask a short 
respite, and hope it will be granted, because it ought to be granted. 
A few days of change of scene and air is the best prescription ; 
and if taken in time may prevent much and incurable mischief. 

" I will now venture to touch on two minor points, which concern 
yourself only, and are, I confess, points of some delicacy. 



OF MOTHERS AND GOVERNESSES. 181 

" Dress is of some consequence. A young inexperienced woman, 
without any particular fondness for ornament, is apt to dress too 
well, because of the position in which she is placed, and as a 
means of commanding respect from her inferiors. A woman who 
has been long a governess, and is bent on saving money, is apt to 
fall into the opposite extreme. A sensible woman will avoid both 
these mistakes. There is a certain measure of good taste which 
is worth consideration. You can seldom be so fine as the lady's- 
maid, neither is it necessary : — perfect neatness ; a simplicity, 
not without elegance, because dictated by the sense of propriety 
and natural good taste, will be found at once the most lady-like 
and most economical. 

" And this brings me to the last topic on which I will touch — 
economy. Whatever your salary may be, put by the half of it 
if you can ; a third — a quarter — something, be it ever so little. 
It is too true that a governess, though she can always be economi- 
cal, can seldom be provident : there is generally some sacred 
claim on her small resources; and the very circumstances 
which throw a young woman on her own exertions for support, 
generally throw upon her the care or maintenance of one or more 
members of her own family : there is some home whereto a few 
pounds bring needful help, — a sister to put to school, — a mother 
to support, — a father's or a brother's debts to pay. The plea is 
hard to set aside ; still, if it be possible, lay by a part of your 
salary, even that you may not become a burthen on that over- 
burthened home ; and that, if a period of sickness arrive, or if an 
interval of rest be needful, you may not be forced either to con- 
tinue exertion at the certain loss of power and health, or to appeal 
to charity, or to be wretched for the want of it. If it be possible, 
cultivate self-help in the midst of dependence."* 

* It is with a sort of shuddering at the heart that I have written the 
above, and that I repeat — If it be possible. It is seldom so. Let any one 



18-2 RELATIVE SOCIAL POSITION 

I have said nothing here of merely school-room duties ; all tho 
help that can be given by books or by written precept may be 

refer to the cases of destitute governesses as they stand recorded on the 
books of the Governesses' Benevolent Institution. Here are a few of 
them : — 

" Is obliged to maintain an invalid sister, who has no one else to look to." 
—Cases 6, .31, 34, 78, 81, 83. 

** Entirely impoverished by endeavoring to uphold her father's efforts in 
business."— Cases 8, 68, 92. 

" Supported her mother for nearly twenty years." — Cases 52, 75, 97, 98. 

" Incapable of taking another situation from extreme nervous excitement, 
caused by over-exertion and anxiety." — Cases 23, 53, 74. 

" Her sight affected from over-exertion, never giving herself any rest, 
having a mother dependent on her." — Cases 18, 61, 62. 

" Supports an aged mother." — Case 42. 

" Had saved a little money, but lent it to a brother who failed."— Case 73. 

" Supported both her aged parents, and three orphans of a widowed sis- 
ter." — Case 65 

" Her father died, leaving his family unprovided for, and they have been 
entirely supported by her exertions." — Case 25. 

" Has helped to bring up seven younger brothers and sisters." — Case 58* 

" Helped to support her mother and educate her sisters."— Case 56. 

" Educated two younger sisters and a niece." — Case 51. 

" Her only remaining parent still dependent on her." — Case 40. 

" Supported botn parents with the assistance of a sister." — Case 38. 

" Had the entire support of both parents for nearly twenty years." — 
Case 30. 

" Supported her mother for fourteen years." — Cases 21, 29. 

" Devoted all her earnings to the education of her five nieces, who all 
became governesses." — Case 93. 

" Saved nothing during twenty-six years of exertion, having supported 
her mother, three younger sistefs and a brother, and educated the four."— 
Case 41. 

" And," adds the reporter of these examples of feminine devotion, with 
equal truth and eloquence, " shall we call this * improvidence V Shall she 
who has 'provided' for the comfort in old age of her widowed mother, or 
her father, paralytic, imbecile, insane — Shall she, who has by self-sacrifice 
placed her sisters and brothers in the path of independence, and thus 



OF MOTHERS AND GOVERNESSES. J 183 

found in detail in various excellent works on education ; the best 
of which are almost useless where there is not that good sense 
which ought to supersede them all. I have confined myself 
absolutely to the matter in hand, — the relative social position of 
the Mother and the Governess. Everyone will acknowledge it to 
be one of great difficulty and discomfort ; and for which there is 
no remedy to be looked for but in the general advance of society 
through the influence of enlightened Christianity ; and for which, 
meanwhile, there is no amelioration to be hoped for but in indi- 
vidual effort, and in bringing as much as possible of conscience 
and benevolence to bear upon it on both sides. I have here done 
my best to bring the two parties to a better understanding, and so 
L leave them :- — 



-And trust the rest 



To reason,. virtue, time, and woman's breast!" 

'provided' for their future prosperity—Shall she be told, that she ought 
first to have provided for herself? It is the peculiar character of Chris- 
tianity to care for others rather than ourselves : — Shall it be a crime in the 
governess, that this is usually the very character of her life ?" 



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